nonsense

regret stalks the early morning train to work: a grizzly looking man stumbles through the carriage yelling nonsense in a language only he knows, lugging a plastic bag of plastic bottles. he shouts demands for answers at nobody in particular. every zombie holds their breath and phones to their stoney faces. nobody moves. his anger is unpleasant, too loud and scary for this early hour. I hope he alights at the next station. he does.

fill the fridge

there are buttons at my fingertips and insects crawling up the walls. close your eyes: without trying you'll find sound in every moment. what do you hear? I'd have an answer for you if the dog would stop barking. when it does I'll listen to my breathing til it's louder than the thoughts I count for nothing. they sulk; parasites on the margins of my vision, hanging over every day like moths rotting against lightbulbs for attention. I charge the day with tasks that take me nowhere but the shops to fill the fridge. on the phone we talk about where it is I need to be because investing matters. there are emails and catalogues of ways to play the game and find the key. I know where to go and still I cower in the corner. potential taunts me like the dreams I'll never wake to see. dust collects and spiders spin homes in the crook of my neck. I am good for them, if not myself. but there are buttons and a key under the mat. tomorrow was never a choice. wake up. get moving. there's more you have to hear.

due for more tomorrow

rain came. I was on the way into the city to pick up a friend. it was getting late and the streets were packed because it was a Saturday night and people have things to celebrate. the rain is different here, or at least not like what I grew up with. at home the rain comes gently and often enough that we are familiar and know what to expect. the showers never last long, though if they do they're almost always soft and sleepy. here, the rain is charged with anger, as though the clouds have given in to screaming about something they've tried to avoid for too long. rivers quickly form and rush down gutters by the curb. pedestrians lose sight of wherever they were going and the traffic on the road. the lingering heat of a cloudless day is diluted in a matter of seconds. thunder trumps even the sound of planes on their descent. usually, the storm continues for a while, sometimes on and off for days. the forecast says we're due for more tomorrow through to Friday. by time it leaves I'll welcome the sun not long ago I prayed to disappear. in a matter of days I'll beg for rain once more. satisfaction is a friend that never stays for long. momentary peace for now. temporary everythings forever and a half.

the gap

I can't commit to more than a few words. thoughts are empty at the moment. listening and watching a lot easier than being. I'd like to write and understand the gap between in which I sit. I know it doesn't last and I'll find a voice again. maybe learn to draw and want to be. I've managed before. everything is only for now. the sale ended and I left the store with something else. the bombs that stop will start again. I can't sleep until I can. the lamp is on until it isn't. I go to bed to hide in my phone from who I could have been. look at everyone else. listen to the fan. think about the pixels. forget and pray for rain.

8pm in the park

reading naked lunch on the grass in the breeze at dusk:

‘did you hear what he said? that man is a menace! everything he touches goes to…’

‘well, you know. remember like the character’s proposal to kill…’

‘so I just found that out…’

‘there’s you, and then there’s also gluten free, who’s like…’

‘but he was pissed off….’

‘she’s like “let me see what I can do”….’

‘if it’s not a yes, it’s a no…’

‘and I would…’

‘it depends what you’re having…’

‘yeah, underneath the table, or…’

‘someone was competitive…’

‘but that’s probably a gimmick, right?’

‘they all love you…’

‘where do you want to sit? next to them?’

‘are they more important to look at? absolutely…’

‘oh, a little bit of money, yeah…’

I find my feet to the path. *death to the colony* on the cemetery wall.

only dishes and news

the boulder is heavy with groceries and dreams I once believed in. my will is weaker than the arms that roll the stone.

I should be trying harder than I am. there are steps I need to take to find my way back to where I should be going. I am offered help and signs by those I worry. I am told I can change and that changing takes time. we have been here before.

waiting waters what rain cannot reach. resentment fills the buckets spared for gifts that never surface: no storm, no reply, no end of days. only dishes and news I choose to blame for my mood. I brush my teeth and wash my face and tell myself tomorrow is another day until it never comes.

not enough

I have been flailing for a while now. waiting in the same spot for far too long, knowing I need to change. stagnant like the heat that hangs heavy through the streets of the city I've fumbled. disappointment waits at the foot of the mattress. I sleep on the floor and dream of people and places I may never see again. in my head I count through the list of things I need to fix. the list is long and heavy on my shoulders. I want to light it with a match, or fold a paper plane to catch the wind and fly away. there's nowhere left for me to hide.

every problem leads back to this fickle assemblage of thoughts and organs at the keys. we've known this all along. and though he knows he needs to seize the reigns, he doesn't move. does he expect someone else to do the work? watch him limp in circles through the labyrinth he waters with his own self-pity. what will it take to get him moving? he protests quietly, a pathetic mumble about this time of year and the heat. he says he's trying as he continues to do nothing at all to get over himself. growth is a hopeful memory left at home.

the days keep coming. I open my phone to blame something else for how I feel: a tyrant, a war, an idea, a reply that never comes. sitting on the sidelines, my presence is passive. when I open my mouth there is less to say now. the voice I once claimed collects dust on the shelf by empty bottles of care. I shirk responsibility for the map I should be drawing. the lines make such little sense. the reflection is a nightmare they say I could change if I really tried. my parents love me and I love them too. there is food in the fridge and a chance of showers in the morning. is this not enough?