All that was tangible a few days ago has slipped like ashes through my finger tips. The faces and the names have disappeared and the sounds I heard as the sun rose and set each day have faded away and all I am left with is the dull thud of a giant heart that has nothing left to give. I write and I write until my finger tips are stained with ink from the moments where I have paused to think. I’m sitting under a palm watching my family in the water. I hang on tight like a torn appendage and I feel more alone than ever. I can’t remember the moment when I stopped caring but I do remember the moment I knew that people’s words were really just words. Meaningless words. No one says what they mean anymore. Perhaps like the ones I’m writing. Floating about in the Sydney sky. You may say that I’m not alone ten thousand times over but only I can make that call. I get tired of helping myself. I get tired of the days when my incompatibility with the rest of the world glares at kind strangers. I get tired of laying heavy drapes over the same people’s shoulders. My reasons for being here may not be the right ones but at least I can put some hearts at ease. I’m here. It doesn’t matter to me. But I’m here. These are my darker days.
(Illustration by Saadah Kent, my Mum)