if I had a calendar

without hanging a calendar I diagnose every day a different shade of blue. the colours work for winter and the cold until the rain stops falling. we’ve had a hint of summer before spring. I taste tomorrow on the sip of tea that’s too warm for the temperature that’s too warm for this time of year. I try to see my thoughts as words I’m reading in a book so as to pick apart the lack of logic. if I really want, I can see the case that’s made by people I love out of the love they have for me: that my fear of every summer to come and the spirals they bring is a self fulfilling prophesy. there is logic and love and sometimes a combination of both, each of which can shape the things we say and derail us from the truth. and I can believe what I choose to believe except for when I believe that I can’t.

if I had a calendar on my wall I’d wake and turn the page for spring. if I was consistent I’d live in a mirror or give away everything I have to something more than me. but I am nothing if not on the fence and living in between. I’ll watch another movie til I want to go to sleep.

a good person

I open the screen and work until I close it, at which point tasks and expectations mean nothing until time comes to do it all again. I won’t think about where most of my waking hours go once I log off for the night. in therapy the psychologist says this was a good thing. we did what we all seem to enjoy and gave it a label: balance. she applauded my efforts at setting healthy boundaries. I wanted to talk about something else.

I walk to the store for milk on my break. the air is warmer than it should be. beyond drying laundry the heat does little for me. I worry about the summer that will be, and spare a moment of concern for those still yet to accept the impending destruction of the ecosystem and world as we now know it to the climate catastrophe caused by our collective greed and need for more. the horizon is bleak for everyone that still is and will be. I write about them now to feel better about thinking more of myself and the task of enduring the December soon to come.

I choose unbruised fruit and leave what I wouldn’t eat myself for somebody else. at the checkout I scan the codes and think of my own delusion in the belief that a performance of words and gestures to indicate care can make me a good person. I wonder if it makes me evil or nothing worse than human.

spoiled

sometimes I’m there in my dreams and it’s like I never leave. I catch tasks and pass them off completed at a pace I could never keep with a ball on the field. demands from different directions grow louder and there is hot angry breath down the back of my neck. but I keep up and manage til the running stops and there is thanks for your time and we’ll see you tomorrow. I close my possessions and the thought of the treadmill into a briefcase and wake up to the sound of tomorrow.

on my run I listen to the air that I’ve spoiled leaving my body. I think about where I am and that maybe this is the hardest I’ve made myself work since I broke, although last time it felt as though it was all building up to something big. at the kettle I wait and scroll past footage I don’t want to see of infants and their final breaths. in five minutes I’ll give a stranger a couple hundred dollars to ask me how I’m feeling for an hour. I’ll have leftovers for dinner when I’m done.

packed like sardines

I exit the train and am one cell in the current that passes down the platform from the train doors to the stairs. the procession descends, packed like sardines in a crushed tin box; solemn and mechanical as we move to the gates at which we pay for passing through liminal vessels and spaces to our temples. today we broke bread at the benches on the lawn we can see from the window: an assortment of biscuits and cupcakes wrapped in plastic, products of the devotion of other believers from other churches. nobody had time to bake.

on the bus home last night I told my parents about my new religion. dad said work shouldn’t feel that way if you enjoy it. I thought people were meant to enjoy their religions. on the bus tonight I open my phone to a photo of a monkey dressed like a professor. there’s a chat on my phone that details the 326th day of the genocide: 41 Palestinians killed and 114 injured in the past 24 hours. I tell myself I’ll eat less chocolate tonight.

rhythm

I give my day to a rhythm I spend the night trying to forget. the moon rises and I only remember who am when I leave the building. I exist beyond routine and you the divine demands placed upon me: but where? the contract tells me my joy is important; that I should find time for the things that matter beyond my screen and tasks. with space and time I unravel, without I mean nothing. can I ask someone to fix this?

candles and a table

at my desk I can sit and spend entire days without thinking of the truth that once kept me bound to my bed. the same truth I pass through in dreams or words and scenes on pages and screens. sometimes I manage a whole day of ignorance - uncrippled by the weight that once sunk every morning. I relish the comfort of too much to do and no time to think. I smile when I should without thinking about what I know is and always will be, no matter how much I give to the life I call work. the truth is too big for emails and grocery lists. when I finish the day I close my screen and walk with my book to the park to feel the sun on my face until the shadows stretch to meet me. I read stories I wish I’d written. I’ll see myself in anything but where and who I am. there can be comfort and joy in telling any story but my own.

I walk through the department store and pass through empty bedrooms. I buy candles and a table for a home that isn’t mine. 

rubble everywhere

in my dream there is rubble everywhere and only the skeletons of buildings still standing. there are mothers wailing as their children dig through the rubble. with them I pull through torn tents stained red. the air is thick and heavy. somebody finds the shoe of someone they knew or loved. a voice over the speaker booms through the shell of the city that was. I follow the crowds that move at this prompt. I don’t understand what was said. we gather around a large tear of fabric, and I know that underneath are the remains of the children they’ve found. parents fall to their knees and look to the heavens for something. an answer maybe? I’m not quite sure. I turn to throw up and wake up instead.

I check my phone and try to think of what I want for dinner. at the rally a pink haired redneck assaults the man with the flag up ahead of me. the organiser in high vis tells the perpetrator it’s a peaceful protest. ‘no it’s not!’ he shouts as he storms away from the cops.