nearly time to go home. I pack my bag with clothes I don't want to wear anymore. on the phone I lean on Mum and Dad and so often take for granted the luxury of being loved no matter how I am. they count down the sleeps and I catch myself doing the same.
there are days with less loathing, when the clouds are softer and the colours bleed more freely. I catch glimpses of the afternoon sun on the back of my head and stop to remember that I am one of the lucky ones. sometimes the grasp of the parasite loosens and thoughts are kinder. my body can be my own and there are flowers to pick. I harvest dreams and memories and can choose to be swayed by the gold in my beautiful blue bucket. I play with hope, perched on my wrist like a bird I shouldn't feed. she wants to know my secrets and I surrender myself freely: everything I have and want means nothing to tomorrow. which of us can transcend their hopeless insignificance in the face of the headlines and a world that keeps burning?
there are days with less perspective. I take comfort in reminders of what matters and the different ways I feel. claw for meaning between emails and demands that thread a case for the stencil on the treadmill. I dream of drifting down the creek to watch the trees pass over me. the leaves fall and I miss being held by something other than myself.
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