Procrastination

There are various reasons I haven't posted a blog in nearly a month. No well there's only one. It's called university. This monster takes over your life and makes sure you have no time to do anything but uni work!! No that's not true, I have enough time I just choose to spend it procrastinating rather than doing work on assignments. And as a direct result of procrastinating about writing I have done the very thing I was procrastinating about..written! Just some random stuff because people obviously miss my presence on this blog and I thought I'd treat you all to a few of my thoughts.


The Last Meal

The taste is decidedly familiar, but the feeling is final. “No more of this for a month” she says. It’s hard to live without it. She is sitting next to me while I eat my last meal. She always sits next to me when we eat.

I close my eyes and pick up the small square, making sure to caress its rounded edges. This dish does not require knives or forks, or even a plate, just hungry hands. It is often smooth in texture, though today it is not. I feel a warm sensation against my skin and see that it has begun to melt in my hand. I’ve thought about this too long. Though it is my last meal. I slip it into my mouth, deciding to enjoy the whole thing, rather than slowly devouring it. Partly because I know it frustrates you.

Immediately the roof of my mouth tingles with familiarity, I’ve eaten this before. I clamp down my teeth and a minty river begins to flow through my mouth. It is gooier than usual, but I don’t mind. I just want to enjoy this; my last meal. My lips purse together like a fish as I suck out all the flavour, leaving only a brown salivated shell. This dark cave once housed a burst of exciting flavour. Now the minty river is flowing down my throat, warming against my insides. And the cave is slowly dissolving into my hungry, desperate mouth. Because, it’s my last meal.

This will be my last piece of chocolate for a month. Not because I’m on a diet, just because, she said so. And she always sits next to me when I eat.


Dear Father

I’m sick of the roar of that beast next door. You say they should be banned. I half-heartedly agree. Only, I know my father who I have yet to meet, would not be proud of this. But who is he to say what I agree with. I’ve never even met him. Only, I have. I met him a few times. It’s just, I forget. It’s not that I have an absent mind, just a father. He wouldn’t blame me. For forgetting that is. Because he forgets too. He doesn’t even know my name. After all these years of forgetting me, I thought he’d know who I was. If I were forgettable then first he must remember. He must remember who I am. And in order to remember, he must know my name. But he doesn’t. He forgot that. Just like he forgot me, I’ll forget him too. Though, I really can’t, only sometimes. I forget, because he has forgotten. And I’m too tired to remember. So I say yes to your proposal. Ban those roaring beasts next door. I’m sorry father, but I’ve forgotten. Just like you.


Always

You always find new ways to make me cry.
I thrust my body under the cold shower. The water pounded like bricks against my pale white skin. I had to be punished. I was spending three weeks of the coldest month in a notoriously cold city. I’d asked you to come with me. Only I hadn’t really, you offered but then withdrew. But it seemed somehow, that our love had promised me this much.

You always find new ways to make me cry.
I had never been fond of showers in Brisbane. The hot water seared my skin, turning it an embarrassed shade of pink. I’m not one for guilt, or spite. But I wanted to remind you. Tell you of all the hours I spent each week, devoted to your passion. Wasn’t it only fair? Surely these hours would add up to weeks. Weeks you could spend with me.

You always find new ways to make me cry.
I step out of the shower, neither hot nor cold. The fluctuating water temperature had calmed me. You weren’t coming with me and I wasn’t going to ask again. But I’ll remember this little thing you wouldn’t do for me. I’ll remember it when I’m sitting on a hard bench for three hours in the ten degree night.


Frivolous Fridays

Our lovers’ hideaway is bathed in the glorious afternoon light. I always did love Fridays. You are there, I am here. I’ve sentenced you to work, with the promise of future rewards. I know this will grab you. My feet dangle off the edge of the bed, and I wonder if you are watching them. They flail violently, up, then down. To the sound of your sometimes favourite band.

My head is moving too. But you can’t see that. You are on the other side. Behind the wall. But I picture you; you always look cute on Fridays. My pen begins to tap. I wonder if you hear it. I know you do, because I know you are listening. I wonder if I told you I was listening to your sometimes favourite band, would you be proud. I want to ask, but I don’t. You are working this time.

My shoulders start to swing. I know you can’t see this. But you feel it in yourself. Because we are connected. I can’t hear you tapping at the keyboard but I feel you are. The tapping of my pen reminds you of this.

My whole body begins to move. This is your music; it’s your music in our time.

I’d always loved Fridays. This was the day you taught me to be free. I don’t feel bad on Fridays. A day off means a day spent studying. But not Fridays. Because these are our days. Fridays are the days we say ‘I love you’, the day we have no doubts, no guilt, just frivolous pleasure. I shall call them Frivolous Fridays. I’ll mark this on my calendar. Make a life of it. On Frivolous Fridays we shall celebrate a love deserving of its own day. And we’ll make a life of it.


That's all folks.