Or for something to

I am stuck within a constant. An invariable. A waiting. Like a Migrant Hostel- radiating transience, yet stifling all movement. They casually clip the homing pigeons wings as the residency is claimed. Perhaps they only wanted to stay the night. Or the afternoon to see Uncle Petyr, and to remark haughtily on the journey home of how his face grows thin. The lines that approach the corners of his eyes are deeper. That "he looks tired." As much as Petyr, they are stuck in the constant. The wait in the heat.
Summer brings sweat and forced family gatherings. Competitions for affection. More sweat. Maybe a little cricket. And a waiting for it all to be over.



Or for something to

Sometimes, you find that you're seriously unhappy.

ALEC #2

It's awkwardly long eye contact. The kind that stays with you.

We were tying things down. I was getting rid of the space that seemed to have been left with me. Happy that I'd been allowed the opportunity, to be quite frank. I was climbing up the sides of my ship and tightening rope. [You preferred rope. More reliable. Steadfast. Tested.] We were saying nothing. Not that I can remember. Perhaps it was of no importance. Or implication. After a couple of mangled half hitches and reef knots that were convincing enough to tie down the cargo, I look across deck. You're staring. Not casually looking over, or past. Not glancing. No blinking. With an expression that I still can't place. It seemed distant. Or perhaps, lost. They're very different things.

Jono told me once that their difference [the difference between lost and distant] was the clincher here. The breaker. One has movement. Direction. Placement. There is a wholeness to it. Someone who is distant does not connect with someone who is lost. Lost is absence. Looking through things. Grasping. Clutching. Willing, but only reaching the penultima.

I am lost in my syllables. And in the deciphering of your [perhaps accidental] stare. You are just as distant as ever.

There is a very large storm approaching.

I am sitting on my verandah, and there is a very large storm approaching. It's lighting up the evening sky. I appreciate its smell. And the heaviness of the air has gone too. You can hear its stomach battles: the retching gales that are of loads of water, and the sighs of dissipating queasiness. The rumble echoing through an expansive ribcage. The sky is a man struggling to hold onto his insides.

Perhaps it's pathetic fallacy. Or perhaps I'm a microcosmic replica.

String Theory

Say everybody is a piece of string. Those who reach their limit to learning have their reel cut from them and stop unravelling themselves. Because their connection to a wider perspective has been severed: through overbearing metanarratives or unhealthy obsessiveness over particular ideals. You are severed when you prevent yourself from learning. You try and meet with other reels of string, perhaps of the same colour wheel or same brand of string. Maybe you started unravelling at the same time and you take special pride in that. But one day, you're heading down the haberdashery aisle to go see Aunty Sue and you see another reel. A mountain of information. You wonder if it ever stops. Whether it's possible that it could just keep unwinding forever. Whether they'd be protected and soft at the centre, or rough and gritty. You hope that they unravel toward you. That you'd studied hard enough to impress them. You wonder whether you could extend yourself, give yourself a couple more yards on your legs that you aren't entitled to. And then a fear catches you like the plague. Bubonic. Small pox. The Black Death. What if you stop unwinding today, or tomorrow? Will that be enough in the end? And then you've been severed by a self-constructed metanarrative.

Or you could consider that particle physics stuff.

Messenger

I spent the evening chatting to a man who cannot get up. It must be terrible having your legs bound to your chair.

It's dark and all I can taste is Indian food.

Sometimes you just wanna curl up and cry. Or kiss a cute boy and forget about it. Jump ship and take a holiday. All of these things are ideas I have caught in my throat. Prospects that are never gonna make it past the cutting room floor. All I am is desperate for a reply. For someone to tell me that I'm not alone.