Gordo's Thoughts

Small poems. Unsolicited thoughts. Black and White Photography.          

[xopotato]

What if I told you that it gets better?

19/08/2019 - A letter to myself.

That today is just that - today.

That you know you’ve been here before, and the best you can do for now is endure.

Endure can mean a lot of things. It can be as simple as peeling yourself away from your dark corner and sitting in the sun.

Please remember you don’t need to climb mountains. Sometimes, the best you can be is simply to be

.

Try existing for a while. Now there’s a strange concept - giving yourself permission to be.

To be who you want to be and do the things that nourish your wondering mind - your growing universe. To let that spark shine. To learn that life is far too short and that it doesn’t hurt to smile once in a while.

And yes, you can put yourself first. You can say no. You can deffer. Love yourself first, and others will find love for you. You can do all this, and so much more. You’re capable of wonderful things, so full of potential and hope. So full of life. And if you feel you can’t right now, take it a day at a time. Take a walk. Take a break. Have a breakdown. Do what you need to get through. Just remember it gets better.

[xopotato]

On growing up

I know I've grown in these past three months not by the lately developed stubble on my face, but because more and more I find myself dwelling somewhere in the past. Tequila, cigarettes, and regret on Hindley. Buying a converse jumper that would later be stolen from me at DFO. The first time I got high and felt I could die. Endless trips up the Northern Expressway with Riptide on repeat. Your hand, in mine. The steering wheel beneath dimly lit street lights. The heartbreak. My endless mistakes. The struggles. I know i’ve grown up because people from school are distant strangers now. I see their Snapchat stories, blurry nights of binge drinking that will no doubt be deleted first thing in the morning.   Here I am, pinot in hand, hunched over (somewhat awkwardly), writing an essay on journalistic objectivity. Soon I’ll crawl into bed, back to work, and back to bed again. Growing up is fucked up, fun, and scary. More and more responsibility. It would be easy to give up - to listen to the parts of me that tell me I’ll never belong - but maybe then all of this would’ve been for nothing. Afterall, you don’t know how memorable something is until it’s over. And I’m fucking far from over.

The toilet gurgles an ungodly tune. It’s high maintenance, but it deals with shit and I appreciate it. I can tell it’s friday night not by the fact that I have kept up with the date, but because my neighbours are excessively loud and happy. I don’t really mind, they play classic tunes like American Pie and scream at the top of their lungs. Their drunken whaling makes me nostalgic for all the house parties we’ve had in our yard, Mum and Dad half a bottle of Jacks deep; my sister trying to pole dance on square poles. She’s not the most graceful being, ‘specially while drunk. I’m eight or nine (or twelve) espresso martinis in, and I’m trying to have fun but parts of me still feel like they don’t belong. My being always doubts itself, but on nights like these its most bearable. Being around my family reminds me that I am me, at least I hope. Maybe my emotions are just dampened by the alcohol. Anyway, Crocodile Rock comes on and everyone strips - because that’s what you do when you’re young and drunk and carefree. (Not me though, I’d never be so vulnerable). I know my parents are older. Not because they look or feel older in my mind, but only because I’m almost twenty. Mum and Dad will be immortalised in my memory as infinitely youthful and caring.     I know my parents are older. Because someday soon I’ll need to grow up. Because each the joy of each Birthday seems to fade a bit more. I miss nights like those. You never know something is so memorable until it is over. Three months later, I’ve grown up some more. My (favourite) sister is across the world in Ottawa, somewhere so foreign to me that I can only begin to imagine it. It’s a patchwork of pictures that I’ve seen in books from Flightcentre, and Ballarat deep in July. I like to imagine everyone in Ottawa is kind, and that there’s an abundance of rare winter sunshine.

[xopotato]

I, too, have  s u f f e r e d unimaginably. 

Yet, I am kind and strong.  u n b r o k e n. 

[xopotato]

The world could use someone like you - a dreamer. 

I hope we can dance upon the rubble, Laughing, long enough to see it rise. I hope you remember how to dream; Know how to stare at a dirt patch, Imagine a garden full of orange sun. 

[xopotato]

I think it comes in waves, I hope you hurt less than I do. I still want you.  I think, and think, think.  I thought I’d be better,  without you. 

[xopotato]

Winter has come.  I know because my dog sleeps on the bed again, curled up beside me in the blankets. I know because I can’t hear stereos blaring songs from the earlier two-thousands until 1 am in the morning anymore.  Because we’ve stopped going out for ice cream, and to do beach at ungodly hours in the morning to talk about the universe and all its little quirks. Your shitty first-car doesn’t overheat in the night anymore; we don’t scream at the top of our lungs with all the windows down and the air con on full blast.  I’ve stopped complaining about the heat, and yearning for gin and you, you pretty thing.  In winter, The sun rises like people fall asleep; ‘slowly, and then all at once’ (John Green, Looking For Alaska.) My mum makes pumpkin soup and hearty meals and pours her soul into a cup of coffee when it takes me too long to drag myself out of bed. 

I listen to last summer’s hits on repeat and watch my Snapchat memories over and over, like a nostalgic piece of shit. I just want to eat chocolate and drink mochas and watch the rain from a window somewhere foreign.  I know winter is here because I miss summer. You only miss something when its gone. You only know how much you loved something until it becomes ... unlovable. 

[xopotato]

I hope you love him, In the morning; When the rain falls, When you’re vulnerable.

[xopotato]

Leaves need to fall  Before flowers bloom. Before each sunrise  Comes the storm.

I feel so very down lately. I’ve felt this way before, and I know it gets better. I just need to keep busy and get out the house and go for a walk when is all I want to do is crawl back into my bed and peel the covers over today. I promise you, it gets better. Please keep fighting. If not for today, than tomorrow. Keep going. 

[xopotato]

I love you  In the morning,  When the rain falls;  When you’re vulnerable. 

[xopotato]

Bring me today in a brown paper bag.  Lean it up softly beside last night’s bottle;  gently - carefully so you don’t wake me.  Come and watch the rain fall slowly with                                                            me while I think myself into oblivion;  quietly - carefully so you don’t break me. 

[xopotato]

Who are we all,  If not shadows on a wall?

[xopotato]

I need to get away again. I need to wonder the streets lost in thought. I need to watch people so I can appreciate all that I have. You only know what you had when its gone. I need to be grateful, so fucking grateful. I need to get far, far away from here. Even for a day or two - to clear my head and contain these thoughts. I want to visit Japan, South Africa, Kenya, Vietnam, Sweeden, and Canada. One day, I promise. 

[xopotato]

It’s a panic attack, short-breathed and red faced, in the kitchen.                        It’s the need for a u-turn on a one way strip.                                                            It’s the feeling of empty - vaguely familiar - in a sweaty nightclub full of people      It’s reaching for one more glass of red, though one too many.                              It’s your last cigarette … the third time this month.                                                It’s being so alone before a skyline full of excitement and lust.                              It's a midnight kiss - wide eyed - with the wrong person on your seventeenth new years eve.                                                                                                            It’s a collection of what could've been, if only you were brave enough to jump.    It’s deciphering your emotions at the end of January.                                              It’s the art of disappearing, silently, into the haze of  a grey winter night mid-July.