happy new year, from australia, in 5 hours time

Almost every other day, I travel down this road. The same road as it was growing up; one or two potholes, that darn speed bump I always miss, and passing by the neighborhood park. But today was different.

As I drove past the park, something felt odd. There was an uncanny, almost haunting, emptiness to it. The weather was overcast — the perfect weather to be kicking ball or just messing around the field, in my opinion — but the park was empty. Quiet, except for the subtle howl of the wind. It was beautiful.

It wasn't always like this. There used to be kids dangling from the monkey bars. There used to be families taking strolls during the evening. There used to be boys playing football, and the rare group of girls watching from the swings. There used to be a small group of teenagers on skateboards, and a healthy amount of children on bicycles.

It used to be much noisier than this. The air used to be filled with whooping, laughing, and profanities in all four languages. Not that we were angry for the most part.

To think that once upon a time this place was echoing with joy and laughter.. It reminds me how times have changed, and how the people, who were once whooping, laughing, and cursing, too have changed.

It probably means that I, too, must have changed.

~

nothing is a good thing

There was nothing to do.

So I jumped through a plate-glass window while we were playing follow-the-leader because I thought, “No one will ever follow me through this.” I got twelve stitches across my head.

There was nothing to do.

So we built a bike track in the valley, defined it with stones, and we crashed through the dirt all summer long, long before the rangers would stop and ask us if we’d been attacked.

There was nothing to do.

So I jumped on the roof of the car and held on and we drove real fast until I fell off (and I told mom and dad that I fell of a skateboard). I am still so proud of these scars.

There was nothing to do.

So we built traps by putting newspaper over holes in the backyard, covering them in dirt, and tried to lure people into walking over them. No one ever got hurt.

There was nothing to do.

So I built chlorine bombs in the backyard and nearly killed us all so many times. If you tried to do the same, you’d wind up on a watch list.

There was nothing to do.

So we kissed girls outside the church every Sunday when the pastor wasn’t looking.

There was nothing to do.

I jumped into bed and missed. Five more stitches.

There was nothing to do.

I fell out of a tree and branch caught my arm on the way down. Eighteen stitches.

There was nothing to do.

I slid down a telephone pole and a nail tore open my leg. Eight more stitches.

There was nothing to do.

My foot slipped between the bed and the cupboard where dad kept his razor blades. Twenty-five more stitches.

There was nothing to do.

And I would kill for nothing to do, and the energy and the ignorance, to do it. Regardless of the stitches.

Here at last, we shall be free

~

Just to clarify, I did not write this.

the war inside

These voices speak instead and what's right is wrong

And I'm giving into them, please Lord, how long

Will I be held captive by the lies that I believe

My heart's in constant chaos and it keeps me so deceived

~

absence

Someone once told me that it always rains somewhere pretty this time of year. I hope wherever you are at this time of year, the sky does something pretty for you.

i wrote this for you