Bored, broke and blue

Almost work time
Originally uploaded by phunkstarr.

Found this entry from last march. Quite interesting:

Es tan corto el amor, y tan largo el olvido.
-Pablo Neruda

The great wheels of a disjointed life with no direction are slowly
winding down and adapting to an arctic tempo. Like an overture, I'm dancing on the tip of a feathered pen, Vivaldi's violin sings to me
from the dotted ink, it is winter, but the snow is missing.

I exist in the heavenly arrangement of light, I linger between piano
and mezzoforte, it's so different here, so different. So...quiet (so
lonely). Every morning greets me with every shade of the palette,
albeit sometimes only grey. This great feeling, as if another prescence guides me through the day, it follows me wherever I go, as if every tree, every rock and birch notices my uneasy breaths, the wind whispers comfort in my hair as I walk.

I run. Every day I run. Through clouds. Perched on top of the valley I
grew up in, as cold temperature forces them down into the basin, I run
through them and feel the smiles of unborn drops of rain tingle my
cheeks. Too much winter numbs your limbs, but too much summer numbs
your senses, I realise.

My mind has forgotten to return.

It still lingers in the hills of Brisbane, it still bathes in the glow
of a jealous afternoon sun, every heartbeat beats in places and faces
that are no more than memories. It's so bizarre, suddenly all the people I know, I knew - only exist as small electric impulses flashing between synapses in my brain. It's as if I'm writing this in a shed on
a distant planet. Where did everybody go?

It's like watching a bus leave with someone you care about on it. As
your eyes meet and lock for what may be the last time (lightning might
strike you any second, you know), you realise: this moment, this
bittersweet instant will only be a poor quality polaroid carefully
etched onto your retina. And so, as the squeaking twin doors close, a
part of you leaves you, in a daring leap it jumps out of your heart
and takes a quick glance back at you, mid stride. It gives you a
fearless shrug and a boyish smile and slips between the doors of the
speeding coach in the nick of time and disappears around the corner.

We all have a dream that left on a bus. It's comforting to know that
on the shoulder of every person leaving, there sits a tiny whiff of
hope from the person left behind, like a small daffodil perched up
against the neck and tickling the ear, a forget-me-not. We all have
our flowerbeds of burden to wear on our shoulders, we all feel a
whispering tickle now and again, from a hope and a dream standing a
tip-toe blowing in your ear, making sure you never forget the little
instants that make up a life.

As I write, my hectic mind continues to fill the office wall at the
back of my eyes with ever fading polaroids, whispering through
clenched teeth: I must not forget.
I understand that it is only my eyes forgetting. Every tip of my
fingers, every laugh and smile I've felt is locked securely away in a
vaulted heart.

Tap-tap, goes Leopold's white stick. As I look up, I realise the overture does not stop, I'm up soon, gotta stay focused, the violin's playing now, and I smile. Life goes on, it strikes me. Like a kiss that's still on your lips, years later, life goes on but never leaves you.

It's just intermission, that's all.


Bored, broke and blue