Thursday, 29 March 2012
The wind doesn't blow anymore. The wind doesn't blow and the trees can't breathe. And the heat will turn them into ash as the sun rises and falls, setting fire to the clouds that circle our heads and scramble our thoughts, dulling the senses, blurring the days into each other as we sit on our back steps, on our grass, on our walls, on our pavements, cross-legged, knees and ankles pricked with grit and dust and ash from the sky. Everything bleached with light, everything neon, everything harsh. These days are long, they end at 11 and start again by 3. Blues through the window getting bluer by the hour, trailing the ocean into the night, headlights and searchlights and nightlights. Heartbeat in my hand. Static in my throat. The night air is never still, will never be still, it is more alive than you or I, it pulses, it cackles it screeches like cats. In summer it sings to you from car radios and house parties, 5am, no varnish, no lies, taking off it's make-up and it's eyelashes to show you the other side of night. The tired side, the raw side, running with the wolves at dawn. Ear to the ground, listen for the sounds of the sun underneath trying to break through from where it was buried. Listen for the sound of Ophelia in the water, as we dive out of our windows and drown in bluest sky, reflections of each other, while the stars just sigh.