His lips became mushrooms in the darkness, smooth on one side and fringed against the other. This is how we sleep; coiled like ropes woven over weeknights and day trips. We are snug and sweltering, we are grasping and murmuring. Still on these dry season eves.

My real job bores me. I find internet distractions. Find ways to overload myself. Swore I would never curate again yet here I am, eating myself out of time.

I want to do everything-I want to find balance. I'm pretty ambitious for a sloth. I want greatness and to hide under the kitchen table. I am terrified of achieving my dreams.

I SHOULD be working...

The first

Tierd of being holed up in my bedroom, lost between pages, reading about genocide and regretting the success of my friends. Tierd of the rejection letters, the mass mail outs, the fear that I will never be a writer, the article for SMH I just can't seem to get out of my skull and onto the page, the fear that I am just and will always be a community worker and wondering what the hell I gave up for this salary anyway. Tierd of fighting with my boyfriend, my fight or flight tendancies to pack up and move pack up and move pack up and move pack up and move because that is easier than sorting through the boxes anyway. Tierd of this office, with it's shiny computer screen, the cupboard with never ending stationary GOD DAMMIT I'M DROWNING IN POST IT NOTES!
Anyway....
It all makes sense in those moments on the bus, when I catch a glimpse of the ocean, looking past the roundabout on Aralia St, when the bus sweeps around the corner of fannie bay and I eat moutfulls of the harbour. When the sun shines throuogh the sky in so many directions I revert to my catholic upbringing and start to believe in heaven again. When the clouds turn so many shades of grey, I question the need for colours, with giant clouds bellowing across tainted skies.

All the reasons why I came home