Man On A Train

There's a man in the tram bay directly across from me. 
He's overweight, in a sweat stained electric blue shirt with tattoos up his arms that look as though he's quickly sketched them up in a spontaneous moment and shoved the wrinkled sheet of paper in the tattoo artists face and grunted 'I want that'. 
He's not all there. Mentally, that is. He's fidgeting and anxious. 
It's late and I make sure he doesn't see my curious and fearful eyes watching him. 
I'm small and careful not to get into trouble, I'm afraid of those in society I can't understand. Those who are bigger and who in a wrong mood could get angry and hurt me. 
I don't know if he'd hurt me. Maybe he wouldn't, maybe he would. 
He's tossing a purple box wrapped in plastic, rolling it mid air between his hands and all of a sudden he tears at the plastic feverishly and rips the box open. The insides suggest it's a corsage and I try and imagine the woman he might offer one to... But quickly I see it's a perfume bottle. 
He sprays it on himself sniffing vigerously and the feminine scent contrasts with his brutish build. A man sits in front of him so I can no longer see so I begin to type this up in my phone so I don't forget. 
He's shuffling awkwardly into a jacket suggesting it's almost his stop. I dare another look and he has a smoke in his mouth, prerolled and waiting. 
His hair is greasy I notice. 
And I think of Tim Winton's words I'd heard only hours before, class is the one politically correct thing people are afraid to talk of. Class is something no one speaks of, no one jokes of. It's there but never acknowledged. I agree to a point but his words make me think of just how different this man across from me and I am. I don't really acknowledge it further though because at the next stop, he's gone and the one after so am I. 

In My Dreams

I have a lover. In my dreams he is completely and madly in love with me. In glistening, wispy silver clouds of vague imagination he kisses me from the top of my head to the very tips of my toes, soft lips sticking and catching slightly on my polished skin and his tongue sends sharp jolts of fizzing electricity to the deepest pits of my stomach.

In my dreams he loves me. He pulls me close so I do not have to worry and he swallows my pain and sorrow for me so I never have to. He lifts me as if I wear a white feather gown and takes me to places of a romantic’s dream. Picnics with strawberries and thick dark, sticky chocolate, midnight beds under starlit skies and adoration beyond any other.

My dreams feel so real that I gasp quickly, the physical and uncontrollable way my body reacts to what I see behind closed eyes shocks me and saddens me when I realise I am only on a train a thousand miles away from any lover or any touch. 

In my dreams he misses me terribly. He cannot live without me by his side and he tells me so, frequently. He yearns for me and plans for my return, gifts and words to embellish me with, so that I never leave him again.

The look he gives me, with twinkling eyes and complete attention takes my breath away. He wants to hold onto every word that spills from my mouth because nothing is more important in the world than being with me and knowing me and loving me until there is no possible way to love me anymore than that unless he will explode!

Though, this boy in my dreams can give me anything sometimes he will simply take my hands in his and lie with me, happy to have nothing in the world but my company and no words need to be uttered, nothing needs to be done, to explain the love he has for me and I for him, the gift and passion we share.

…In my dreams, I have a lover. 

Glass half empty or half full?

He checks the time, 5am. 5 hours sleep, half of which he spent alone. He considered holding his pillow across his wife’s face, noting the simple fact that he knows she is sleeping with other men. Taking into consideration the fact that he would easily be found guilty of murder, Roger decides against the juicy idea of having her breathe taken away from something other than a young, attractive body builder and instead swings his legs out from under the old sheets and heads towards the bathroom. His toothbrush is old and has smudges of red lipstick around the rim. Another enlightening gift from the filthy female in the next room. Roger’s face is wrinkling at the sides and with every day he knows he is less likely to be found attractive by the helpless women at his local pub and the idea makes his heart pound with fear.

His coffee is too hot and too strong. The waiter is too clumsy and Roger asks himself why the world is full of such idiots and why he too, is apart of the accused. You see, he continually arrives at the same pathetic coffee shop each morning to continually ask for the same stomach churning breakfast broth because he is too scared and too forgetful to ever try somewhere new.

Roger works in a 10 story high office building as an accountant working day in and day out doing the same old thing – crunching other people’s numbers.

Roger doesn’t like his job, he never has. But the idea of money and security appealed to him all those nostalgic years ago. So now he is stuck working his hairline away in a building where the greys all merge into one and he finds himself taking a leak at the same sad time of 10am every morning, wondering how someone’s bleak life could sink so low. He finds that every person speaks the same monotone ‘I want a promotion’ sweet-talk that after 13 years, he is ever so used to and that he can’t even be bothered faking a smile for his boss as she walks past.

At 6pm, as soon as the second hand flicks up past the 12 Roger bends his aging back past it’s limits to switch off every power point in his small office as apart of the ‘save the world’ campaign his boss has decided everyone must follow. He groans as he notices the seams bursting at his black work boots and the laces that are fraying at the ends. Another pointless worry that slips past the 37 year old mind in a matter of seconds.

As Roger drives out of the underground car park, validating his $7 parking ticket his phone clicks onto the speed dial so he can call his wife asking the same questions he asks every time. ‘How was your day?’ ‘What are we doing for dinner?’ ‘No I didn’t pick up the dry cleaning, can I do it tomorrow?’. And the conversation goes like that and he ends it without the required “I love you” because he simply can’t be bothered.

When Roger slips back into the bed he left at 5am 19 hours later he goes through the same things in his head just because it’s routine. He thinks of everything that he’s forgotten, the bills, the 4 o’clock meeting, the doctors appointment and everything else his sorry life is meant to hold. He turns on his side to look at the dip in the mattress in which his wife should be filling knowing full well that yoga classes don’t run at 12pm.

Roger is a glass half empty kind of guy, it’s something not even his shrink can fix.

 ***

Roger wakes laughing at the usual grim, restless night look and morning breath every man he knows, wakes to wondering why his face and hair get so muddled by the pillow in such a short 5 hours. Roger looks over lovingly to his wife of four years and despite the fact that he knows she likes to flirt casually with other men he cant help but think just how lucky he is. He smiles at the thought of finding her looking at a body building calendar yesterday in the mall thinking to himself ‘so its not just guys who can’t help themselves’ and with that, Roger slips his feet from the silky sheet and moves into the bathroom. His toothbrush is old and has smudges of red lipstick around the rim but he doesn’t care, because the little things don’t bother him and he writes down that he must go and buy a new one after work. Roger’s face is wrinkling at the sides and with every day he knows they’re simply just signs that he’s wearing more experience and feeling.

His coffee yesterday was too hot and too strong and the waiter was too clumsy so today Roger decides to try the new café just down the road from his office block and much to his pleasure he is able to order a seemingly perfect cappuccino. Roger works in a 10 story high office building as an accountant working day in and day out doing the same thing – crunching other people’s numbers.

Roger likes his job, he always has because the idea of money and security appealed to him all those nostalgic years ago when he was top of his maths class. Now, 13 years later, he still enters his office with a spring in his step.

Roger finds that every person speaks the same up beat tone, which he calls ‘I want a promotion’. He and his boss regularly joke about it so it makes him happy to know that his boss sees him as a genuine worker and that he, out of all the people in the office building will be getting the next big bonus.

At 6pm, as soon as the second hand flicks up past the 12 Roger switches off every power point in his small office as apart of the ‘save the world’ campaign his boss has decided everyone must follow and it makes him feel that little bit happier inside knowing that he’s apart of something worthwhile. He notices that the seams are bursting in his black work boots and the laces that are fraying at the ends and it pleases him that he finally has an excuse to buy new ones.

As Roger drives out of the underground car park, validating his $7 parking ticket his phone clicks onto the speed dial so he can call his wife and tell her that he has a romantic surprise waiting for her when he gets home and they talk endlessly until he has to get out of the car and pick up her dry cleaning.

When Roger slips back into the bed he left at 5am just 19 hours later he goes through his day and how thankful he is to be where he is and to have the things he has. He thinks of everything that he’s forgotten, the bills, the 4 o’clock meeting and the doctor’s appointment but doesn’t worry because at the end of the day, they’re just little things.

He turns on his side to look at his wife glad that he has managed to get her to quit ‘12pm yoga’.

Roger is a glass half full kind of guy, it’s the reason his shrink told him he would be fine on his own.

Nothing will change

I love him.

It’s as simple as that.

And yet its as complicated as that.

No matter how much hurt he causes nothing changes how much my heart beats only to match his. 

Lost

I’m a void ship. An empty shell in a vast nowhere sea, longing to be noticed. I am a happy person most of the time. My chest swells with love for the life I lead and I always follow my passions with excitement and forwardness. But I’m only human and sometimes somewhere inside me I still feel sadness, insecurity and the brokenness of my past. These moments need only be fleeting and brief but they mellow because I have no one to share these sinking feelings with. I am cast astray searching empty waters for a rescuer that never comes.

The one I love doesn’t ever register my hurt. For over a year I have tried to get him to notice the subtle drop in my face after a slicing comment or when my voice strains, begging him to hold me when I reach out for him but he doesn’t see it, doesn’t feel it and certainly doesn’t pretend to…

How do you say to someone you love something as simple as “I need comfort when I am sad” when its never really that simple and the response if I do tell him will be short followed by the phone call being ended and the silence I listen to after he’s long gone and moments later forgotten I’d ever mentioned anything.

Feeling frustrated and hurt I call him. He answers quickly and I hear voices in the background. Fear suddenly flooding me, I tell him not to worry but he tells me to go on so I say in the simplest terms possible…

“You know when I said to you that I was stressed and sad about leaving you?” Referring to my overseas trip in a few weeks and my mountain of uni work I didn’t really want to finish…

“Yeah…?”

“All you had to say was ‘it’ll be ok’” I wait for his response, my veins filling with hope that he’ll see what I mean and hold me close and tell me that he’ll look after me but there’s silence and I refuse to utter the first words.

“…Ok….and what did I actually say?”

“Nothing” my heart tightens “you never say anything…”

There’s silence and I can feel his discomfort through the telephone and caring too much about him I try and make my voice sound more cheering, “That’s all..”

“Ok”

“Ok”

“I’ll talk to you later.” It’s always his goodbye, his closing comment and I know the topic won’t ever be spoken about again. “Ok” I choke. He’s gone and hot tears fill the silence of a dead phone line.  

The Storm

Her hair was soft and golden blonde, shimmering in the sunset. His was thick and black like a horse’s mane and it’s where he got his nickname from. Her skin was milky white, against her conservative, bright, floral dress that was flapping in the wind on her long pale legs. He sat, the complete opposite to her, skin tight from a dark tan, in denim shorts he had cut from old jeans and his bare chest showing the creases of his toned stomach. The two sat side by side in weathered old deck chairs humming away to the tune Mane strummed on his guitar. The strings vibrated strong into the evening in time with the crickets buzzing away in the wild grass. The wind was whipping up blowing a sweet sent of salty air from the beaches down below along with the heat that was radiating off the hot sand.

“The Gods are starting a fight…” Mane commented pointing to the blackening sky.

The girl, whose name was Lizzie looked up boldly to the sky and smirked.

“No” She laughed, “They’re hungry.”

Mane laughed along with her, so taken by her different views on the world.  Where he had been brought up, among the pine trees and rivers in America he had been taught that thunderstorms meant nothing but trouble and here Lizzie was, completely amused and relaxed by it.

She held a Polaroid camera neatly in her hands. It was a gift from Mane for her birthday and although he really couldn’t afford it, he had made sure he had given her the best present he possibly could, even if it meant washing dishes at the town pub for the next 40 years of his life.

She snapped away two pictures quickly, one of Mane smiling down at his guitar and another of the wide, open field before them.

“Don’t waste the film” Mane joked a slight hint of worry in his voice as he thought about the fact that he wouldn’t be able to afford to buy her more.

Lizzie looked at him, eyes gleaming and it wasn’t until the raindrops, like tears began to run down his chest, pooling at his belly, that he realised what she was grinning at.   The skies opened quickly letting rain hit them like small bullets. Mane pulled his chair back under the cover of the veranda and tried to compete with the needle like sound of the rain hitting the earth around them.

Lizzie stood from her chair and spun a few times, hands out stretched like a sacrifice. Mane began to strum harder and let his voice break out loudly in song along with her spins.

“Dance with me!” Lizzie yelled above the thunder.

Mane continued to sing as lightning lit up their surroundings like the brightest day in spring. Lizzie’s mouth dropped as she lifted her camera to try and capture her awe, the beauty of her surroundings.

“Dance with me!” Lizzie called again, this time as she unbuttoned the back of her dress, letting it slip awkwardly to the ground.

Mane watched her in amazement, his heart pounding as she danced away to the drums of the storm, nearly naked.

Slowly he lifted from his seat and set his guitar aside. Lizzie barely noticed the ring of his music washing away with the rain.

He watched her grinning under the rain, counting as moments flew by before he reached 10 and ran to her, scooping her up in his arms.

Together they danced, hand in hand, bare skin upon bare skin, with not a care in the world, to the song of an empty stomach.

My dead pixel.

I just turned my computer on straight after I just had turned it off. I want to write. So I turn on my computer, a thousand thoughts rushing through my head. They’re good thoughts…I could write a novel. Ideas like Mozart’s great symphonies swim in my head but I cannot bring them from my imagination to the written page. According to a famous photographer the…hmm I forget exactly how he said it…. but essentially he said that the skill, and the greatness in art… and in life is being able to bring things out of your imagination into the physical world. I guess that means I’m not great…yet. (Of course.)

I turn my computer on and the screen is bright and it stuns me. My thoughts instantly vanish and my focus is on the single dead pixel to the left of my screen. Sometimes it consumes me. Today it consumes me. I always try and brush it away like I do all the other gross specs of dusk but it always stays. Always STAYS. It’s been there since the very day I bought my computer and I never did anything about it. “A single dead pixels – its nothing!” But it’s a dead pixel. Its dead. The idea of something dead in front of me as I try and create greatness bugs me. The tiny little spec of black among a sea of glowing colour bugs me. I’m sitting here writing about a dead pixel because in the 4 years I have owned my laptop the dead pixel has caught my attention a hundred thousand times over. Its one of those thoughts that seems complete normal until after a long period of time thinking you’re normal, and its nothing, you admit it to another human and you realise you’re fucking insane and you realise sometimes its not good to bring things from the imagination or unconscious into the real world. Some things are meant to stay secret. My dead pixel is no longer a secret.