you are not made to feel conscious of the identity you hold in your community?
(because I like it best that way. To melt into a crowd and not be picked out but also to not feel apart from the crowd and odd.)
So you asked, “Can you imagine centering your personality around your finances or heritage?” It certainly rings with your laughter.
Ungentle and defensive.
In an alternative future, if I had not been born into the same context as I was, I am certain I would have snarled in my own defensiveness.
Why is it again, so quickly, already past midnight?
Have you heard of a thing called a happiness hangover? Have been through one? Unlike the alcohol induced ones, I am not sure I would be able to stop.
So then to control those characteristic oscilliations, maybe the problem is that my heart has begun beating too much. Smiling too much, laughing too much. Indulging too much.
It comes back after like a boomerang to hit you.
I do not like this. But I can only begrudge us if we don’t want to suffer.
Alright. Next holiday, I will not do these again.
I will not say it is to recharge. And I will spread out these people whom I call my happiness.
(To not only not be able to have a recess week holiday the way we want to.)
To look at the last little shoot left in the pot and to have watered him on that sunny day, was to have saved it.
Saving the day.
One has just started, again.
It’s exhausting, this singing on the Saturday morning. The only thing I am to be glad for is that it makes me wake up.
That way it makes me awake for the rest of the day? Because I have more readings again.
I’m awake but tired. Singing makes Saturdays and the morning particularly, much too fast.
Like the song, our director is right, I’m singing slower than the pace – it’s also like trying to present an emotion to the audience when you can’t match it.
Matching the note alone has already taken a lot of effort when you can’t read the notes. I can’t imagine doing this if we didn’t have musical members who provided the midi tracks.
Without hearing it, I would be entirely lost and floudering.
Still, that accuracy. Without that then, there is nothing to show for the concern, let alone the time.
H and Y are the bright spots of my saturday morning blues, it’s not lonely with them around, even if we don’t always have the chance to use the chat box.
I’m looking forward to real life choir, to actually have time to talk to them and meet them and know what they are like and what they like.
That thought keeps me going.
One day I looked in the mirror and tried to reach into the past. To ask if my six year old self would have been proud of me.
But my seven year old self who went to school with my top collar buttoned and nearly suffocated trying to get it off, remembered only the girl who helped me unbutton it.
Her name was E, and sometimes I wonder about how we ended up far away from one another.
Do you remember her, R? When she eventually moved away and then, when did I lose her?
I am not sure. But you are here, still.
I looked into a pond and found my twelve year of self looking back out at me, with spectacles already but no lines on their face.
When she smiled freely, I saw… the darkness that had already manifested in her eyes.
I reached out and she rippled in the water, her not a dress – just school uniform, her lips parted into a child’s ‘o’.
Like the one she would have given that the auntie cleaner who stopped her at the door to the female washroom.
I look down into my phone screen and it is true that my eyes are dark.
From this angle it certainly looks like I have hollows for eyes. There are no hints of whites.
My fifteen year old self would have reached out through the phone to touch me.
I would have hugged her.
Mrs Curren was right in the end.
(this is what it looks like, when two people decide: that the love has not died.)
So with these cold fingers tap-tap-tapping on a warm computer keyboard, alright, you will go and start work again. So that you will not regret it and so that tomorrow will go well. Since it is finally not midnight yet.
(this is what it looks when two people decide: that the love has died.)
There is this thread between us.
Such mud, it is, and yet we still, cannot decide?
I am not sure. This is what it looks like,
this is what I have now,
this is what I have to show for everything that
has already happened.
Thank you for what you have managed to do
so I will keep working for it. For us, so that
this would all not be a waste at the end of it all.
Will you pull the rope? I have dug us a trench, the one that began
as your spot for a plant.
Now, will you take shelter with me here?
We can traverse the world in it, by sleeping here,
this bed we have made.
I will think of how to water-proof it,
do not worry of it. Every other part of it is what
we have wanted. For it to be dark and cool, spaced but cosy.
The kind of place to light a bonfire and take cover in from the
bombs. This place has been mouldering all these years.
I will bring you cake, there are steps to a forest.
Remember to take the thread and not cake crumbs,
and of course, come back to me someday.
(maybe this is what it looks like: when inside, two people have died.)