I think about writing all the time

I think about writing all the time

Think about how doing it feels harder than the not doing it even though the not doing it doesn’t feel good

Doesn’t feel easy

And why doesn’t it feel easy when it used to feel easy

Used to burn my fingertips and behind my eyes and in my head

A voice an urgent voice

Waiting

Not waiting

Lurching forward

Ahead of me

Ahead of my own self! How can that be

And maybe it’s just because its September and it’s spring and there’s a brief reprieve from whatever August has left in its wake

It’s September and I drove past my old high school today or actually

Mum did while I sat in the passenger seat staring out at the oval the front gates the kids in PE

A different uniform to mine but the same

It’s all always the same

From behind the glass I felt how I used to feel I saw them and I thought

That’s how I used to feel

They’ve knocked over the building but the tired sports shed with the grimy equipment I can still smell

Sickly sweet acrid air dark unlit room

Green faded timber no windows

And the same playground purple and green and orange

Who choose those colours and why haven’t they faded the way the timber shed has faded

The way the goal posts have faded

The lawn still glows green and maybe that’s why I can still feel it and taste it

Bore water don’t drink

But we didn’t care because of course we didn’t because who cares when you’re 13 15

16 17 who cares

Now I’m 28 and I don’t care but I care so much about other things

Different things

The same things

10-year reunion in November and I’m back on that oval

In that sports shed on that lawn on that playground and I didn’t even like PE I fucking hated PE

But I’m staring out the window at that oval and Mum’s dropping me off no picking me up no wait

She’s talking and I’m staring out at the oval the front gates the kids in PE

Different but the same

It’s all always the same and I think about writing all the time