Write everyday, and that will be good enough.
I ripped myself from my cycle, from the sheets, the burning candle; cackling, waning, from the pale window side and the brownie pan, from the sulking desk, the blackening curtain that once smelled of turmeric and a spring dawn.
On the bus I felt the eyes and fumes of strangers, I felt winter loosening into its skin, the bus halt, go, halt, twist, accumulating hot air. I did not think of anything, nothing I can remember now, except that one mantra I shall not refuse:
I must become an acquaintance to that which passes through me and circles back, hour to hour, the pang of lost love, the image of love in a person who is now lost totally, or even the sneeze of peace, the forgiving hello of my life's image: multi-florescent and whole.
I cannot get out of my head the fear of what alienation cumulatively does to me. I cannot quite pinpoint the ideal exodus of my isolation. I imagine myself surrounded by church bells, I imagine myself grinning at climax - covered in saliva and sunrays, I imagine the lullaby that is pure curiosity as it butters my nerves with the first phrase of mystery. I imagine myself and a flower alone considering the sound. I imagine falling in love over and over again.
Perhaps I imagine being more open to the sensation of love wherever it may take me.
That is the secret of the time I was once most happy.
To recall that security, is to outline its absence in me now. I breathe in.
Sitting at the cafe where I will be reading poetry in a few weeks. I cannot afford a refill on my tea. The street lamps just turned on and the sky has shifted from a blinding pale gray to a shadowed cerulean that peels my very heart from me and it is just 4:40 in the afternoon. As for the hunger, I don't feel it in my stomach, I feel it in my lips and my spine, now in my nose with the whiff of a stew being boiled in the back. I wrap my thin sweatshirt around my bound torso and adjust my glasses, the window glass gets thinner and my fingers jump over the keys- broken by chill. I consider commuting home, I consider the waiting and shivering. I consider passing groups of friends and lovers seen through restaurant windows, feasting and laughing, I consider the light in eyes that will not look my way. I consider the jealousy and the building starvation. I also consider waiting here, writing here, then reading. Finding a way to resource any warmth, drinking the free water, my right leg crossed over my left swaying weakly and melodiously. Waiting until Coles opens. I wouldn't buy a beer. If I did it would fill me up like a meal and I'd feel warm for a moment. I consider being there, no money in my pocket, nothing to fall back on except the single day bus pass I dropped half of all my money on.
I could steal again. I'd steal a candle and a hot drink.
I think about A and flinch to my surprise. A song plays that reminds me of when they bought me a bouquet of marigolds from out the car window on my birthday.
I imagine them walking in through the jingling door and feeling okay. I imagine their warm hands falling all around mine
and now the cold is becoming too much to bear.
The sky now looks like an oil spill in ocean waters. The door jingles, the train roars, my nipples get cold, my foot starts shaking faster. I don't need anybody to look at me, no I do not. All of this because I am practically nothing at all, especially as long as I am alive, and this is not to rouse despair.
It is now 5pm, and I will prepare myself to find something new. I just have to gnaw the sting of wind and the blow of hunger.
I am content to have eyes, I will record for this sake, for the sake of writing just to write everyday.
