pleasant

at the very least routine proves it is possible to live sustainably at a distance from the heart. sweeping the surface is more than enough to get by. I pass as pleasant and out of the shadows I entertain their belief that I am more than the unopened parcel of disappointments and vital organs that keep me moving. the parasite tells stories and they never miss the mark. 

diving

I dreamt I was one jump away from achieving my dreams. atop a diving podium I looked down. the pool was so far I could hardly see it. I was worried that if I jumped I might miss the pool altogether. down below, the future I wanted waited for me. but I couldn’t see and the height was too great so I ran and left without explaining myself.

in another dream I remember my cousin and his friend hiding from me at the reception of the wedding of someone we knew. I wanted to be close to his friend but couldn’t keep up with them. at some point Dad was patting the cat we used to feed the waxy rind of parmesan after lunch at our family’s house in Northern Italy. someone took interest in what I wore as I crossed the dance floor, though I remember wishing they wouldn’t. my drama teacher took me for a walk but I don’t remember where.

after work I walked to the park to see the sun before it disappeared. I tried four bookshops for a text that inspired a film I want to understand. no luck yet. Mum called and I remembered it was her father’s anniversary. she told me she loved me and I love her too.

still again

I run the risk of repeating myself every year. we reach a point at which I am functioning fine, to the extent that I can be relied upon to show up on time and complete tasks with a smile. I wake every morning and tend to the routine to which I’ve signed away my freedom. at the end of the day I am too tired to water the plants I’ve dreamt of growing since forever but haven’t made the time to nurture. I eat leftovers and resign to thoughtless time-passing on a screen on my pillow or the wall. tonight I want to draw but it’s been a few too many weeks and I’m convinced I’ve forgotten how. I’ll boil the kettle and open the fridge and not think of what I lack until I’m still again.

dvd towers

I dreamt the pope died and the son of my cousin couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t find the words to comfort him because I didn’t understand why he was so sad. at some point I was searching for a film for dozens of children unwilling to go to bed. I knew the perfect film and had spotted a copy on the counter just moments before, but I couldn’t find it and the impatience of too many children in such a small room felt like the weight of the world as I panicked my way through dvd towers of films I’ve seen too many times. I woke in the bed of someone I miss and knew when I saw them that I was still dreaming.

when I woke to this plane it was on the couch in the lounge room. the morning sky was blue and I decided to do my laundry before the rally. I walked behind a lady with a handmade sign giving Israel gold in the genocide medal tally. before bed I listened to the voices of people I love on the phone. they tell me about their days and current chapters. I am lucky to know and be known by people so easy to love. against the pillow on the bottom bunk I am alone and still in what feels like the first time in a while. I feel the weight of my eyelids and listen to my body and the thoughts in the stream. 

control

my time is not my own. I surrender any control I could hold to the expectations of others. I hide behind them and wash my hands of responsibility for the disappointment I hold for my reflection and inability to grow into someone I want to be. the reigns are out of reach and I never stood a chance. there is always someone else to blame. I find comfort in my helplessness and ignore what I know I need to change. for every hurt and reminder of what I lack I collect excuses and build my case of victimhood. I know I’ll find my feet again sometime. maybe I’ll claim myself someday. for now I sit and watch time take. I smile because it doesn’t matter and control means nothing now.

doghole

I spoke with a friend tonight about people disappearing. we had been to a show and bought hot drinks in a cafe that stays open late. at some point we started talking about the stories we tell and believe about ourselves. whenever we are let down by somebody we love, the negative narrative is reinforced and the reflection in the mirror is uglier and more frail than before. my friend reflected that my response to being abandoned is to take responsibility for the avoidance of the ghosts. when people run away without explanation, I question what it was I did. in the story I tell myself, my behaviour or character or very being is reason enough to leave. maybe if I was less they might have stayed. maybe if I had done things differently. maybe if I was somebody else.

it’s hopeless to acknowledge that I have no control over somebody else’s actions or decisions to stay or go. if I feel so hopeless about the state of everything else, why can’t I accept this? 

easy

my housemates are both leaving for Europe soon. I knew about one but the other decided this week. the house will be empty, just me and the ghost. I’ll not know what to do with all the space and silence. my impulse reaction to the news was to find a flight for tomorrow evening.

the work day runs like water down the drain. I am productive and this means more tasks. I forget the world beyond my desk and the sun sets behind my neighbours house. another one. I’ll leave the house for dinner and come back to sleep and do it all over again.

in the Middle East my taxes are still being used to bomb children, though in more places now. I try to make time to read the facts and figures at the very least. the comfortable monotony numbs my response. I am scared of the apathy that is so easy to wear.