Regardless of what we all do, it is beyond certain we will look back at this moment, most of us, and wish the we that we were, the we were are now, had done something different. Had taken advantage of the respite rather than distressing in a depressing heap under sweaty covers for fear of what lurks outside (and in) when we have too much time to think about it. That one walk a day is supposed to make you feel free, but the feeling that all is wrong, the suspicion and eagerness to sprint past of all you pass, the masks and the glances and the eyes, always tired. When I was alone, the neighbours and shopkeepers called out to me, the same generic words become a comfort when confronted with them. Nobody asks how you are to know, simply to have something come from their mouths another soul hears and responds to. Nobody dares even smile in this direction with a man at my side like a curse in their flitting looks. Nobody dares retort in that casual exchange anything that might be exceeding what others expect, because to do what is expected of you is what is expected, and what you do. Expectations come to shape us more than the willing of our own hearts, minds, and souls. We think those dilemmas are tripartite and a harmonious threesome they turn out to be when they forge each great choice, each venture in desire whose possibilities are endless in a life that is a one-dimensional line for all it appears once you look back. All that is creative and unique is intercepted, and rejected, by the overwhelming power of expectation.
Creativity is a waste and we know, for we have seen beautiful paintings spun from the most silent mouths, in these lands untouched by their gentle, artful hands. No tenderness or colour, no softness or shine, just the glass and the steel and the scorched paths where vast pines, oaks and willows may have stood the test of time… but could never stand the test of Man. Divinity is written conveniently in the truth of one man of one pen of one book, of a million eyes with greedy, dark looks. How selfish can all become and remain a unity that amounts to one? It can not be that some are endowed with less of all things and are punished for the arbitrary disadvantage until the day they die. Worse, when freedom is one of the exchangeable goods, it goes on sale, and it sells out, is thrown into the pick-n-mix free- for-all that is life. The choices that one version of myself makes at one time and with certain influences weighing themselves upon her, will infiltrate the remainder of the existence of countless other versions of myself that will have to exist as the world around keeps turning. the people in it changing, my own feelings like the breeze in that they change their direction and severity with such extraordinary variance. Trees are torn from ancient roots and in the wake of the passing typhoon cars and homes like jenga blocks tumble as rubble into one another, but instead of the sharp knock of wood on the table, a chaos like thunder that leaves nothing behind in its wake. Vans like coke cans stamped under foot with the sharp edged windows that slice. If there were people living here, there are not now. The wise ones ran long ago.
Yet, like clockwork, like a turning tide, the storm settles to a whistle through a damp, still morning forest. Nothing lasts forever. Towns may be rebuilt. The population unrecognisable but they’ll tell eternal histories of what was. Let’s hope there’s a shred of truth in there. Let’s pray that good outlived bad in our tales and our souls, let’s pray for a truth devoid of cruelty and devastation. Praying does nothing. Act to be better.
Untrained and untamed the notes that escape my throat are carefree and sweet as they are playful. Never would something so simple as skill prevent me from freeing that urge to immerse my own ears in a delicate tune. You hear tears and misery in music that screams beauty in shivering awe to me. You hear those sentiments reserved for funerals which I know would be all the more usefully used before death, enjoyed by that person whom you say you are celebrating. The deepest and most passionate the memories and the woes, but the feeling of unity and the aching, longing, burning embrace, a visible cloaking of love which may just have kept him with us, is finally here and he is not. Imagine if instead of speaking overhead to a box of wood where they tell us our love is, we had ventured to say all that needed to be heard, just a little sooner.
I’m dancing in the moonlight. There’s no partner at my side. Warm and bright I’m feeling on this cruel, unsacred night. I’m not drunk, despite craving the coldness of the glass in my hand, I stand, not sober but thoroughly wasted upon an empty night. To say there is moonlight is to lie, though it is far from dark. It is never dark here, that would be altogether too natural. Might allow for a moment to forget that the Man and the system are the keepers of our fates, looming over us, and that to them we must remain in perpetual gratitude. We don’t have to exclaim our praise from the rooftops, but we must at least conform enough that we can survive. They could not care either way, so we must. To survive is an act of protest when the system will us all to despair. Pervasively attached to a system we can not understand, holding nothing to show for the mistakes that they made and the lives that were lost by those who could not find footing within its fucked up stages, its encounters and duties, the inescapable nothingness that it is to charade through this lifetime. Compensation is useless, we need change. We need change. We need change.