Advertising shows us glittering seas, white beaches and smeary fuchsia bars far from home. The holiday or travelling setup works to provide us with a mythical space of ease and luxury, or one of goodwill and dedication if we choose to travel with a cause. This fantasy only works on a place because we are there as a tourist; the ideal only exists because it is a purchasable fiction through which we move in ‘time-out-of-life’. The sense of freedom and appreciation for the beauty of a place is perhaps because we know we will leave it again. My mind buys into fairytales when I leave home.
Some hours after midnight, in a ‘tapas’ bar in the French Pyrenees, someone from the gaggle of high-spirited older men at the bar bursts into song. It’s a French reggae song about the mountains. His tobacco-stained teeth and enormous grin signal a presumptuous challenge. From the table, a diner empties the last gulp of a glass of plonk, and, raising a hand as he swallows, jumps up and jangles out of the door to a van parked outside, from which he emerges fully prepared for the evening ahead. He now grasps a bottle of eau-de-vie and a gaffa-taped acoustic, bringing a breath of cold, rain-rinsed air back in with him. Outside, in the narrow pebbled street, a church spire can be seen beyond the high rooftops, and beyond that, the dark cloud-shrouded mountains.
The singer lights another cigarette and comes to join our table. It is illegal to smoke indoors in France, but the laws seem to fade to a matter of convenience when you’re this far-flung from civilisation. A provocative comment on the matter resulted in a laugh of ‘F*ck Sarcozy!’, and a top-up on the drinks. An atmosphere of involvement and enthusiasm with politics is perhaps fuelled by French local government which is broken down to a local level. It seems that there is a strong political force in France, on both the left and right. Anarchist groups who have been widely acknowledged and let-be in France are feeling targeted by the French government at present. Accused of terrorism and illegal activity, the divide in opinion is only fuelled and the blind belief in a cause is pushed further from a central dialogue.
The ‘Eau de vie’ now being trickled into glasses, has come from a local distillery which is contributed to by locals. Amongst these people the brandy seems to be related to a communal right to drink, to swear, and to be slightly mad. Amongst the raucous singing of eight or so people and the two-tone strum of a guitar, the bar owner, a happy, pretty butch woman brings a board of different scraps of yellow French cheeses and a honey jelly condiment to our table. This isn’t high-class table-service, though; just sharing. Food seems more personal and familiar here.
An olive-skinned high cheek-boned woman has migrated from the bar to our table, wanting to practice what she describes as her ‘bad’ English. She tells me about her teenage days; Mohican haircuts and school trips to London; and speaks of her ability to relate to people without language, beyond the barriers of words. The eyes of these people sparkle despite their worn hands and sun-scorched skin. They laugh and drink and eat with casual defiance. Surprisingly, perhaps, many of them are not from this area. Expats and northerners come to live an alternative lifestyle here, one of hard work, near-isolation, and borderline self-sufficiency. With these things come the incredibly close mountains, a definite sense of community, and heightened passions.
After a drunken brawl, in which nonsense, a black eye, and the practicality of making up afterwards come together, I wonder if we have a thing or two to own to the chaos of our whimsical wants. The expats I mention aren’t heading back home.
Oranges
“I love you” she said.
What does that mean? Whispered the voice in her ear.
He stood looking at her, blandly, pleasantly.
What did you mean by that? It whispered again.
She searched his face for an answer.
What does he think you mean by that?
She wondered if she was doing this for effect. Maybe by saying it, she might understand what it meant. By his reaction. But where’s the reaction?
In the corner of the room, a small, hard and unripened green orange rolled bead-like across the linoleum-tiled floor; dropping, as it did, from a potted orange plant. Green Oranges. A green orange. It didn’t make much sense, and what was it doing there anyway? Who has an orange tree in their house? She did, apparently. No wonder they were green.
She was getting distracted again. But why was he still standing there, glossy and pleasant, without comment? Maybe she’d said it in her head, and not out loud. She avoided his eyes.
Oh. What now. Her head throbbed slightly and she decided to turn the thermostat down, began pottering.
“I think I’ll make a cup of tea, do you want one?”
Slowly, he shifted his weight and, sighing into the room, responded. It was a bland sort of negative response into which he injected a positive intonation. He’d just had tea. No Thanks.
She did not really want one anymore, somehow. Perhaps she never had, and she backed out by telling him she had probably had too much caffeine today, anyway.
“Herbal Tea?”
“Yes, I suppose I could do…” An excuse to continue pottering had occurred; she obeyed his suggestion.
He asked her what her plans for the day were.
She "hadn’t thought about it."
She’d hoped to spend it with him. Or, at least, her plan for the day seemed, in retrospect, to have been this moment. She had been waiting to see him, but had she said it?
“I might go to visit some friends later,” she lied.
She paused in the silence, squeezing her peppermint tea bag with her fingers, before asking him what his plans were.
“Not sure, yet. Nothing really. Just thought I’d pop in and say hello, as I was about today.”
She felt the room expanding, felt the walls floating off, and decided it was a good idea to catch his eye, and the walls, and smile.
I don’t think you do like him that much. He always looks so blank – how can you penetrate that smile – how can you ever know someone like that? It whispered.
Maybe she had whispered that bit, because his expression changed as if he’d heard her. He had sat down on the sofa, and now he pushed himself over, reaching out an arm for her to join him.
She walked over gladly, with teacup; felt doubt as she settled herself awkwardly into the crook of his arm, placed her cup down on the low table, turned to face him. She kissed him back all the same. He looked in her eyes and pushed back a strand of her hair, his arm still supporting her awkward posture. He could pierce her, but he gave nothing of himself away.
Then he said ‘You’re lovely’. Or was it, ‘I think you’re lovely’, or ‘I love you’, or ‘hey lovely’, or, what?
She could have said:
But why did you not say that earlier, why did you refuse tea, why didn’t you show me that in your face if its true, how did I not know, then- and why did you ask me what my plans were today when I thought we were spending the afternoon together, if I am lovely or loved or whatever it was…
Instead of these words, she pulled herself upright and supported her own back to lean forwards and curl fingers around her cup. She turned back to him, to those direct and piercing eyes which looked straight at her, to those eyes which she couldn’t get past. She smiled reassuringly at them. She wished she could climb into those glassy eyes. He smiled back at her.
She told him that it wasn’t going to work; there was a lot on, things were complicated, confused, there were plans to go away, the place was wrong. He frowned, and then looked deeper into her gaze, which she tried hard to hold.
She realised his eyes were sad. For a moment she could see him, and then he looked away and out of the window, and there found his response. He said ‘right’, in an unbearably blank, pleasant way; and when he said ‘yeah’ a second later she felt both words thud through her.
But is he upset? The voice whispered
or annoyed? or pleased?...
He left, kissing her on the cheek and smiling again. A sad smile? His eyes pierced her, but they were switched off.
Later that evening, she sat in her friend’s kitchenette, listening to the sounds of speech murlurble about her, but not paying attention to the words they made. She made encouraging noises back, and looked out onto the street, at the blinking Christmas lights reflected into the window opposite.
She was water-proof, opaque, glassy; she was solid. Shards sparkled on the linoleum. Flickered in the blinking lights.
She wondered what he had felt outside the window earlier. He must have felt something. And she tried to let the pangs of doubt wash over her.
What does that mean? Whispered the voice in her ear.
He stood looking at her, blandly, pleasantly.
What did you mean by that? It whispered again.
She searched his face for an answer.
What does he think you mean by that?
She wondered if she was doing this for effect. Maybe by saying it, she might understand what it meant. By his reaction. But where’s the reaction?
In the corner of the room, a small, hard and unripened green orange rolled bead-like across the linoleum-tiled floor; dropping, as it did, from a potted orange plant. Green Oranges. A green orange. It didn’t make much sense, and what was it doing there anyway? Who has an orange tree in their house? She did, apparently. No wonder they were green.
She was getting distracted again. But why was he still standing there, glossy and pleasant, without comment? Maybe she’d said it in her head, and not out loud. She avoided his eyes.
Oh. What now. Her head throbbed slightly and she decided to turn the thermostat down, began pottering.
“I think I’ll make a cup of tea, do you want one?”
Slowly, he shifted his weight and, sighing into the room, responded. It was a bland sort of negative response into which he injected a positive intonation. He’d just had tea. No Thanks.
She did not really want one anymore, somehow. Perhaps she never had, and she backed out by telling him she had probably had too much caffeine today, anyway.
“Herbal Tea?”
“Yes, I suppose I could do…” An excuse to continue pottering had occurred; she obeyed his suggestion.
He asked her what her plans for the day were.
She "hadn’t thought about it."
She’d hoped to spend it with him. Or, at least, her plan for the day seemed, in retrospect, to have been this moment. She had been waiting to see him, but had she said it?
“I might go to visit some friends later,” she lied.
She paused in the silence, squeezing her peppermint tea bag with her fingers, before asking him what his plans were.
“Not sure, yet. Nothing really. Just thought I’d pop in and say hello, as I was about today.”
She felt the room expanding, felt the walls floating off, and decided it was a good idea to catch his eye, and the walls, and smile.
I don’t think you do like him that much. He always looks so blank – how can you penetrate that smile – how can you ever know someone like that? It whispered.
Maybe she had whispered that bit, because his expression changed as if he’d heard her. He had sat down on the sofa, and now he pushed himself over, reaching out an arm for her to join him.
She walked over gladly, with teacup; felt doubt as she settled herself awkwardly into the crook of his arm, placed her cup down on the low table, turned to face him. She kissed him back all the same. He looked in her eyes and pushed back a strand of her hair, his arm still supporting her awkward posture. He could pierce her, but he gave nothing of himself away.
Then he said ‘You’re lovely’. Or was it, ‘I think you’re lovely’, or ‘I love you’, or ‘hey lovely’, or, what?
She could have said:
But why did you not say that earlier, why did you refuse tea, why didn’t you show me that in your face if its true, how did I not know, then- and why did you ask me what my plans were today when I thought we were spending the afternoon together, if I am lovely or loved or whatever it was…
Instead of these words, she pulled herself upright and supported her own back to lean forwards and curl fingers around her cup. She turned back to him, to those direct and piercing eyes which looked straight at her, to those eyes which she couldn’t get past. She smiled reassuringly at them. She wished she could climb into those glassy eyes. He smiled back at her.
She told him that it wasn’t going to work; there was a lot on, things were complicated, confused, there were plans to go away, the place was wrong. He frowned, and then looked deeper into her gaze, which she tried hard to hold.
She realised his eyes were sad. For a moment she could see him, and then he looked away and out of the window, and there found his response. He said ‘right’, in an unbearably blank, pleasant way; and when he said ‘yeah’ a second later she felt both words thud through her.
But is he upset? The voice whispered
or annoyed? or pleased?...
He left, kissing her on the cheek and smiling again. A sad smile? His eyes pierced her, but they were switched off.
Later that evening, she sat in her friend’s kitchenette, listening to the sounds of speech murlurble about her, but not paying attention to the words they made. She made encouraging noises back, and looked out onto the street, at the blinking Christmas lights reflected into the window opposite.
She was water-proof, opaque, glassy; she was solid. Shards sparkled on the linoleum. Flickered in the blinking lights.
She wondered what he had felt outside the window earlier. He must have felt something. And she tried to let the pangs of doubt wash over her.
Evening
Suddenly, it is getting dark and the temperature drops. Stand and face the field, with little purple flowers amongst your toes. The world makes noises: it is noisy but silent: it is louder without people. The air bustles through bushes and leaves. A million insects flutter and crawl and buzz and hum; crackle all about you like static. Birds rummage and call, trees expand and contract; rustling, creaking, shift. It is almost deafening, pressing into your ears from the distance.
Breathe in, a huge breath of cold air, deep, filling your chest.
And you knew. You know this place. You knew you would end up here. You are who you saw as a child and wanted to be, secretly knew you already were…You knew you needed to be here, knew that it was right. This place you do not know. Breathe out. You knew which number to call, which direction to go. It all slips back into place amid a million different distractions of irrationality. The space continues to sing in your ears.
[I know this place. I’ve seen it. I knew I was waiting for Friday, waiting for today. I always knew I would be that girl; this girl. This girl with purple flowers between her toes, with huge dark fields before her; with cool air to lick her skin and cool earth beneath her feet.]
Breathe in. Here is Everything. It is all at once, with all of its contradictions and opposites in tact. Air floats from lips. Pink ribbons of it wave softly serpent-like, unattached, holding space gently together. They tickle as they stroke past the edges of the brain. Some are fat and some are frayed and fine, some are chopped at the end and smack into the air; others are a disintegrating network of barely visible threads. They tickle smiles, brush the wrong direction, pet where they're not wanted; Deeply; or softly to comfort; they niggle past, they sting and prick, poke, and they snap suddenly against pinching air.
Where is this place? Here is where breath is suspended between a sob and a grin, on the limits of suffocation from this pressure to the chest. Peace, laced with exhilaration. You can breathe out whenever you like.
What's the time? This time is the sensations of now, or what might be now. There is an ache, in the throat, from knowing that something is happening now, somewhere; being missed, lost, given away. This time is being, fully being, not there. Does it feel fuller and stronger than somewhere? This time future regret is visible and acceptable. You can’t change a thing.
These legs, these hands just follow. Perhaps this is revisiting, redoing. This is choosing to do it all wrong again. Déjà vu, on a rocky niche downstream; when the others have left, and you lie back next to another body, you look through bare shrubs, up to the cliff face and leaves above, water below, and someone else’s breathing reverberates softly through everything. You had been there before, and it has gone again, now.
Breathe in, a huge breath of cold air, deep, filling your chest.
And you knew. You know this place. You knew you would end up here. You are who you saw as a child and wanted to be, secretly knew you already were…You knew you needed to be here, knew that it was right. This place you do not know. Breathe out. You knew which number to call, which direction to go. It all slips back into place amid a million different distractions of irrationality. The space continues to sing in your ears.
[I know this place. I’ve seen it. I knew I was waiting for Friday, waiting for today. I always knew I would be that girl; this girl. This girl with purple flowers between her toes, with huge dark fields before her; with cool air to lick her skin and cool earth beneath her feet.]
Breathe in. Here is Everything. It is all at once, with all of its contradictions and opposites in tact. Air floats from lips. Pink ribbons of it wave softly serpent-like, unattached, holding space gently together. They tickle as they stroke past the edges of the brain. Some are fat and some are frayed and fine, some are chopped at the end and smack into the air; others are a disintegrating network of barely visible threads. They tickle smiles, brush the wrong direction, pet where they're not wanted; Deeply; or softly to comfort; they niggle past, they sting and prick, poke, and they snap suddenly against pinching air.
Where is this place? Here is where breath is suspended between a sob and a grin, on the limits of suffocation from this pressure to the chest. Peace, laced with exhilaration. You can breathe out whenever you like.
What's the time? This time is the sensations of now, or what might be now. There is an ache, in the throat, from knowing that something is happening now, somewhere; being missed, lost, given away. This time is being, fully being, not there. Does it feel fuller and stronger than somewhere? This time future regret is visible and acceptable. You can’t change a thing.
These legs, these hands just follow. Perhaps this is revisiting, redoing. This is choosing to do it all wrong again. Déjà vu, on a rocky niche downstream; when the others have left, and you lie back next to another body, you look through bare shrubs, up to the cliff face and leaves above, water below, and someone else’s breathing reverberates softly through everything. You had been there before, and it has gone again, now.
France in the Heat
The sun warming my shoulders and knees, my hands shaded, gripping the hot roots of couch grass, I tug at the earth. The mountains stretch slowly off, I know- but green fields feel close and hugging, and my hands sting with heat and friction, and my knees are grazed.
The scene is set, we wait.
I stand and the sunlight throbs around me. The colours seem to hover and beat, throb to and fro as the beating of my heart pumps blood back up to my head. Myriad shades of green mist and yellow sunlit shards swirl around, slowly.
I wipe cool sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm, and wait for nothing, watching the flowerbed. Its circular edge is still in tact while my eyes scoop the outline to form its shape upon the back of my head. I stand there a while longer until a breeze comes across my damp back, and brings me here.
I leave piles of wounded, extracted plants where they are, and walk into a dark cool kitchen. There is no one for miles. It is black, and my eyes cannot quite adjust. The cold stone walls sink deeper still as I try to make out the room: A coffee pot; a tomato from the garden; lavender bunched like sticks, floating from the rafters with ribbon loops.
My feet feel their way across smooth stone, cool on my toes after spiny grass and dry earth. They pad, flatly, silently up sky blue wooden stairs and lead me to a bed. I lie flat on the multi-patterned quilt and wait for nothing to happen.
A mirror’s face is on the wardrobe which stands behind the door; old and oval and flecked, like a relic from a fairytale. It reflects my worn feet into the room. I sit up to see my face. I am glowing, wide eyed. Pretty. My skin is tanned and translucent, strings of wet blonde hair curl about my face.
I study the black centres of my eyes, the freckles on my forehead; and lie back down, feeling alienated. The clock ticks my closed eyelids.
…From behind an opening of glowing green foliage, a white chair, a glimpse of moving blond hair, bare chest, eyes blanked by sunglasses. My heart stops beating and my eyes stop ticking. Silence. I wake and gasp for air.
My heart starts up again as the ticking enters my ears and my eyes reclose. The white chair in the gap of foliage returns, boughs heavy, loaded with blurred green. But now I am sitting at it. Surrounded, framed; closed in with dappled green depths.
The phone again, and I ask impatiently ‘…hello? …hello?’
I can see my grandmother, sitting at the other end. Having said hello once and not being able to hear me on the line, she sits and waits, breathing.
‘Hello?’ I ask again, I know it’s her: I can see her. I give up, and sit and wait too, listening to the breathing. She is there and we don’t need to speak. The surrounding presence closes in and I sink deeply, heavily, with black-green closing in over my ears, my eyes. It is calm and softly muffling. My body evaporates.
I simultaneously rest serenely on a patterned quilt. An open window frames a curve of sunny field against a pale sky, letting in drifts of grass-drenched air. Beneath which I lie, lightly: Pink, white, blue, green; gold-burnished skin and cut knees.
The scene is set, we wait.
I stand and the sunlight throbs around me. The colours seem to hover and beat, throb to and fro as the beating of my heart pumps blood back up to my head. Myriad shades of green mist and yellow sunlit shards swirl around, slowly.
I wipe cool sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm, and wait for nothing, watching the flowerbed. Its circular edge is still in tact while my eyes scoop the outline to form its shape upon the back of my head. I stand there a while longer until a breeze comes across my damp back, and brings me here.
I leave piles of wounded, extracted plants where they are, and walk into a dark cool kitchen. There is no one for miles. It is black, and my eyes cannot quite adjust. The cold stone walls sink deeper still as I try to make out the room: A coffee pot; a tomato from the garden; lavender bunched like sticks, floating from the rafters with ribbon loops.
My feet feel their way across smooth stone, cool on my toes after spiny grass and dry earth. They pad, flatly, silently up sky blue wooden stairs and lead me to a bed. I lie flat on the multi-patterned quilt and wait for nothing to happen.
A mirror’s face is on the wardrobe which stands behind the door; old and oval and flecked, like a relic from a fairytale. It reflects my worn feet into the room. I sit up to see my face. I am glowing, wide eyed. Pretty. My skin is tanned and translucent, strings of wet blonde hair curl about my face.
I study the black centres of my eyes, the freckles on my forehead; and lie back down, feeling alienated. The clock ticks my closed eyelids.
…From behind an opening of glowing green foliage, a white chair, a glimpse of moving blond hair, bare chest, eyes blanked by sunglasses. My heart stops beating and my eyes stop ticking. Silence. I wake and gasp for air.
My heart starts up again as the ticking enters my ears and my eyes reclose. The white chair in the gap of foliage returns, boughs heavy, loaded with blurred green. But now I am sitting at it. Surrounded, framed; closed in with dappled green depths.
The phone again, and I ask impatiently ‘…hello? …hello?’
I can see my grandmother, sitting at the other end. Having said hello once and not being able to hear me on the line, she sits and waits, breathing.
‘Hello?’ I ask again, I know it’s her: I can see her. I give up, and sit and wait too, listening to the breathing. She is there and we don’t need to speak. The surrounding presence closes in and I sink deeply, heavily, with black-green closing in over my ears, my eyes. It is calm and softly muffling. My body evaporates.
I simultaneously rest serenely on a patterned quilt. An open window frames a curve of sunny field against a pale sky, letting in drifts of grass-drenched air. Beneath which I lie, lightly: Pink, white, blue, green; gold-burnished skin and cut knees.
Moving Out
Gone. Finished. Done, gone, moving on, finished. Bridges hurtle towards the car, just skimming the tops of our heads.
‘Don’t smoke, love.’
Stub out the cigarette, roll
Down the window with a button,
Let go,
Roll the window. Back-up.
The words make a new pattern. Somehow they mean a few things at once and my mind absently plays with them.
I flick out the just lit lit rollup out.
I dispose of the cigarette without a flicker of change in my expression or thought process; I enjoyed rolling it more than smoking it anyway. Empty of any real thought or feeling, words echo and fill up the space between my ears with reverberations of the cascading road under the car, as I mutely observe the dry skin on the backs on my hands, so as not to notice the familiar roads fizzing past us.
Something strange- this perpetual waste and change. April is the cruellest month. It’s yet to come, and has gone before, long before me.
Waste. And change. Because you can’t keep hold of anything not solid, I observe logically. Would you want to? Probably not. But the constant change and - loss -(doesn’t miss) but hits you every now and again and sends you spinning yet still, and makes you wonder who you are, anyway?
…………..
A tug on the door handle and the return of the jolt rolled me over onto the pavement. Staring up at the sky, I wonder what I’m doing down here. I’m not drunk, just tired. It’s all blue... milky blue, with no definable clouds; they just blur into the solid mass above. I shut it out and exchange it for the darkness of the insides of my eyelids. With a sigh, I realise just how abnormal this probably looks, and grudgingly pull myself forwards-and-up with my arms outstretched. I sit for a moment and then pull myself up with an imaginary ledge. A pause, for the blood to reach my head again.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just..’ and I giggle.
It’s funny. What am I doing? It’s very funny, I have no idea. The incongruence between what feels normal and what seems normal wibbles, and makes me laugh. My laughing at it makes me laugh more, silently smiling and then wiping the grin off my face because I can’t be bothered to explain; I’ll sound mad. I couldn’t be bothered to stand up, for a moment there. Nothing drastic, just forgot that it was necessary. Very funny.
Up the steps, concrete. Up up up. Everything feels slowed down today. And suddenly rather funny. ‘Unreal’ I say to myself teasingly… unreal suddenly means something real because its what it is and what it isn’t at the same time, my mind overlaps to itself. I try not to notice.
The familiar patterns twist on the walls of the hallway.
Suddenly I hear music, and race towards the sounds, leaping two-at-a-time upstairs, looking for distraction, forgetting to observe,
but I waste,
and I change.
‘Don’t smoke, love.’
Stub out the cigarette, roll
Down the window with a button,
Let go,
Roll the window. Back-up.
The words make a new pattern. Somehow they mean a few things at once and my mind absently plays with them.
I flick out the just lit lit rollup out.
I dispose of the cigarette without a flicker of change in my expression or thought process; I enjoyed rolling it more than smoking it anyway. Empty of any real thought or feeling, words echo and fill up the space between my ears with reverberations of the cascading road under the car, as I mutely observe the dry skin on the backs on my hands, so as not to notice the familiar roads fizzing past us.
Something strange- this perpetual waste and change. April is the cruellest month. It’s yet to come, and has gone before, long before me.
Waste. And change. Because you can’t keep hold of anything not solid, I observe logically. Would you want to? Probably not. But the constant change and - loss -(doesn’t miss) but hits you every now and again and sends you spinning yet still, and makes you wonder who you are, anyway?
…………..
A tug on the door handle and the return of the jolt rolled me over onto the pavement. Staring up at the sky, I wonder what I’m doing down here. I’m not drunk, just tired. It’s all blue... milky blue, with no definable clouds; they just blur into the solid mass above. I shut it out and exchange it for the darkness of the insides of my eyelids. With a sigh, I realise just how abnormal this probably looks, and grudgingly pull myself forwards-and-up with my arms outstretched. I sit for a moment and then pull myself up with an imaginary ledge. A pause, for the blood to reach my head again.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just..’ and I giggle.
It’s funny. What am I doing? It’s very funny, I have no idea. The incongruence between what feels normal and what seems normal wibbles, and makes me laugh. My laughing at it makes me laugh more, silently smiling and then wiping the grin off my face because I can’t be bothered to explain; I’ll sound mad. I couldn’t be bothered to stand up, for a moment there. Nothing drastic, just forgot that it was necessary. Very funny.
Up the steps, concrete. Up up up. Everything feels slowed down today. And suddenly rather funny. ‘Unreal’ I say to myself teasingly… unreal suddenly means something real because its what it is and what it isn’t at the same time, my mind overlaps to itself. I try not to notice.
The familiar patterns twist on the walls of the hallway.
Suddenly I hear music, and race towards the sounds, leaping two-at-a-time upstairs, looking for distraction, forgetting to observe,
but I waste,
and I change.
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