seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Canada
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from Albania
seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
seen from Yemen
seen from Ukraine
seen from United States
seen from China
Thirty Morning Journeys / Thirty
The finality of the month hangs over me, giving an air of ending, although my day has just begun. I wonder if, when my work is done, I will stop to notice the finer details of each day? The intoxicating fragrance of freshly cooked bread in the air. The languid sex appeal of the guy sitting relaxed on the bus. The dulled mindset needed to work. Maybe I’ll just become blind again. And the clock strikes twelve.
Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Nine
Carriage of metal, cheap plastic and even cheaper upholstery hurtles towards the capital. Conveying students and travellers and city workers with no concept of what we call down time. Sitting surrounded by anecdotes, meeting plans and soft clicks of a nearby laptop keyboard. Air-conditioning on and temperature marginally too cold, my cohorts and I wait impatiently to get there. And the clock strikes twelve.
Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Eight
It’s time to go. If I don’t leave now I will have no time for all the plans I made for today. “Five more minutes,” I mutter, pulling the duvet up to my chin, effectively halting my progress. The short time I assigned has become an hour, spent by mostly clicking around the internet with no real purpose. Asked where I am, I say that I’m on my way. Another hour passes. And the clock strikes twelve.
Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Seven
Overly polite voices reading the news break my sleep and bring me back from dreams that I have since forgotten. The opening chords go ‘We Built This City’ by Starship surge from the clock radio and I laugh at its misplacement. This was not the first alarm, the first came two hours before, but I cannot be late with no plans. So this, like the other, is silenced. And the clock strikes twelve.
Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Six
I'm back in my room, where I was still echoes, beautiful, emotional, a projection of what I want most. A place so impossible that I'm surprised I didn't notice that it was nothing but a lie. Instead I woke up somewhere where there's no you, no us, no embraces or soft kisses. I look over, I'm alone in bed, I've never felt worse. And the clock strikes twelve.
Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Five
The party's winding down. It's 3am, my housemates are missing and the remaining drunken revellers have lost lustre. The laptop in the corner is playing the Parma Violets and I'm still speaking to you. We're both dressed like idiots and I'm laughing at your singing. It's half 3, you're leaving, We embrace and I smile into your shoulder, before heading to bed. And the clock strikes twelve.
Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Four
Words. Words to entertain, to shock and to repulse. To be spoken and heard, of lives and loves and broken dreams and hearts. Writing words of our own pasts, or of fictional worlds of our own decision. Peace and war entwined in reckless abandon causing laughs, thoughts and sighs. I wonder if my words are worthy. And the clock strikes twelve.
Thirty Morning Journeys / Twenty-Three
Where did this water come from? This flow that’s forming streams, ponds and rippling reservoirs in the invisible imperfections that mark the hard ground. In fact, I can’t even tell if it is water, as the dark navy colour of the flooring masks the fluids hue from the naked eye. I watch it change course with the determined sway of the bus. I think someone spilt a drink. And the clock strikes twelve.
