fool's gold

my eyes are tired. I spend more time looking at illuminated screens than anything else. the day is an accumulation of digital exchanges. when I work from home I can spend an entire day without saying a word. sometimes I catch myself singing along to a song I didn't realise I enjoyed. maybe it reminds me of somewhere else or somebody or a moment in time. maybe the words resonate with something I've felt. maybe I just like the tune.

I hear my friends' voices on the phone. most of the people I love are out of reach. my phone lets me feel a little closer, though I miss being held. I take for granted how it feels to be occupying space with someone important whilst it's normal. someone important moves or disappears and it's only then with the lack of what was so easy and consistent that I realise how lucky I've been. longing for closeness is familiar to the point of comfort, though I still find home in friends around me. I am kept warm by the knowledge that I am loved and my love is treasured by some. I am embraced and forced to reassess how I've learnt to see myself. for some, I am not too much, no matter how I feel. 'I am who I am and I have the need to be'.

if I look close enough at anything I laugh a little inside at the realisation that it is my choice to make meaning or dismiss all that I witness and experience. the same goes for passing thoughts and feelings, at least I think. I make lists of what I lack, now including the discipline to let go of my parasitic dependence on validation and what it is about me that repels them when they look too closely. leaves in a stream. clouds in the sky. tracks I can skip if I don't want to sing. I rewrite poems on my phone to nurse my ego. 'I can still be who I want to be'.

wake up and open your eyes. the world is big and tired and burning and there is very little I can do. I hold on to what I have. I am lucky to be when others cannot. if I say it enough it can feel like the truth.

pistacchio

I decided to go to trivia but my team didn’t show. maybe I should pay more attention to my inbox. I drank the glass of house red I’d already queued for in a corner of the pool room. half an hour scrolling on my phone for a jacket they sold out of. I held one in my hands before the rally on Sunday. when they say ‘never too late’ it’s aspirational, although if it makes a difference, it’s not for for nothing. on the way out I was eavesdropping and heard the quizmaster confess to a patron she’s been in the job at the same pub for four years. I sleep in a room I’ve occupied for much longer than I should in light of its size and the claustrophobia of the cold and lack of space. shouting from next door, sarcastic voices and bitterness. the neighbours move out this month. they’ve lived in their house, identical to ours, long before I moved in. I hear him play trumpet and their arguments wake me up sometimes. it feels perverted to know so much about people I have never met. the girls never introduced me when I moved in. I guess things were busy. they always are.

every few sentences or thoughts or breaths I remember every ounce of anything I feel is my own. no matter the gravity of any experience, I will only ever have myself to keep on the same page and not miss the fine print. no matter the weight of any feeling, it is contained within my frame. a body that happens to exist somewhere peaceful and safe, with other bodies keeping me in mind and pulled by duty and varying degrees of love to check in and care. I am here. every few thoughts I remember the footage I see on my phone. the number of child martyrs and how many more today? the massacres I cry for until I look away because it’s alll too much for my fragile body. I walk this line and the slip into the sobering dystopia that is the reality beyond my bubble is a slap in the face every time.

I am still surprised and hurt and humoured and I still feel warm when I think of someone I love. the cogs still move. I chose pistacchio gelato and I missed home.

rain sounds

some nights I don’t need to play rain sounds from my phone to clear my head of thoughts. tonight we have real rain running down my window. tonight I wear winter pyjamas that stretch down my limbs. warm like the matching sets Nonna would make for my brothers and I every year. I called her on the weekend to say that I loved her. she said the same in response, though she thought I was my cousin.

I spend most of the day bound to my desk. my wrists are cuffed to the keyboard. sometimes I take the minutes for the meetings and I feel useful. tomorrow I wake early and make myself presentable for the office. the sun will be down by time I return - we watch it slip behind the horizon from our window on the second floor of our office building in the evening. maybe I will join friends at the pub for trivia. maybe I stay home and ruminate on the catastrophe of witnessing the landslide with no power to control an ounce of anything beyond my intake of oxygen and other substances.

the rain is peaceful. I dream of endless night and forgetting myself. I play on my phone too late. <<

june

the coldest Sydney has been to me. I’ve sought out warmth from people I am lucky to love. many remain out of reach - different places and time zones. my parents watch movies by the fireplace in the lounge room where my little brother learnt to walk. my little brother walks through cities where I lost myself and opened new doors, places and faces to dream about and miss. somebody eating corn off the cob in the arcade near town hall station. where did I last do this? is the corn as sweet in this hempisphere? at the rally a fourteen year old educates the masses of the implications of the US congress banning use of the Palestinian death toll, illustrating the catastrophic double standard by which holocaust denial is internationally recognised as a crime against humanity. rich white men criminalise discussion of the deaths caused by the bombs they drop. I fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with friends I used to live with. in my dream I’m at church and I see my orthodontist in the pew; I thank him for messing up my teeth. work through each day and money means less. how lucky and silly that I can’t spare a moment for something I love. in a world so ugly can I rationalise wanting more? I’d like to tell stories again. precious time - where does it all go? somebody I love and lived with in Lewes is pregnant. I still sleep with my teddy bear at night.

fragile and small

I feel fragile and quite small right now. the spaces I occupy are not my own. the comfort I enjoy depends on the presence of others. my dreams are held captive by doubt and a mind that insists on the inevitability of disappointment and desolation. I step on people’s toes in my want to know them. they run and I hate the reflection even more. I am held by people who see the mess and stay. I am loved and rebuilt and I keep moving until I can’t again. so it goes.

the boulder over and over. up the hill and down the hill and up again until forever. from the top I see that my hill is not a mountain, that my boulder could be a lot heavier. I am one of the lucky ones. no sooner has the realisation dawned before I lose the boulder to the slope. I follow to the bottom and start again. <<

cold and safe

the days and nights are cold now. I sit at my desk and press the keys. I send emails and edit documents. three or four cups of tea through the work day. one or two in the evening. I check the news every hour or so. with every bomb dropped on a refugee camp or school I try to visualise the numbers. how big is a group of 17? a group of 45? a massacre of 270? what does that look like? I don't bother trying to understand how the numbers are rationalised. I send my emails and edit my documents. I am paid for my work. I pay taxes, which tie me to the bombs dropping on schools and hospitals, all the way from my tiny igloo of a room on the other side of the planet.

my little brother travels with his partner. London first, now Paris. places that have meant a lot to me. he sends photos of art I love and remember seeing for the first time. he walks through places I've been and shared with people I love. I miss him. I miss the freedom and escape and endless distraction of somewhere new. I miss people I won't see again.

the cold keeps me up and I fold into myself. the spiral tightens and I follow. I think of what I lack and unanswered questions. a lot of time lost dwelling on the people that vanish. I count them and wonder what I did to make them disappear. the ghosts make me feel small. more join the ranks with each year that passes, without explanation or even goodbye. no answers. no closure beyond dreamt up reunions. I remind myself that I hurt people too and wish I could take it all away.

I eat and sleep and carry on (and who doesn't?) when I wake I am still here. it's cold but I'm safe.

taxes

the days pass, and I doubt I'd notice if not for folding cranes. I work lots now. the sun comes out and goes down again while I press keys and send emails. I drink a lot of tea and wear cloves to keep my hands warm. the work distracts me from the understanding that nothing is really within my control. I make lists and complete tasks. I go to bed and then I do it again when I wake up. sometimes I try to create something, to write a poem or draw a portrait I'm proud of. but at the end of the day the blank page scares me - I am tired, and feel so ridiculously far from both inspiration and being capable of creating anything of any quality or meaning. I worry that I've ran out of stories, or forgotten how to find them.

despite hating mirrors and striving to be better, I still tie myself in knots over how I'm perceived. my perceptions of other's perceptions of me weigh me down, even in the face of the knowledge that I mean nothing in the face of a world that makes such little sense. I watch bombs destroy cities and read facts and figures on my phone and cry without really weeping or making a sound. the anger is confused as it festers and I still participate in the human project. I go to work and my taxes fund the bombs used to slaughter children in their thousands. I am a cog in the machine. does my awareness of the part I play mean anything?

I think of people I love. sometimes I spend time with them. I can hold and hug them and my heart is warm. I think of people I miss. I wonder where they are now, and hope they're happy. I think of who I want to be, and remind myself that doesn't matter. I think of the way the world is, and I'll cry again. so it goes.