I sit at a café at the train station in the middle of the city. Melbourne is bustling at half five in the afternoon. For all the commotion surrounding me I feel entirely unnoticed, lonely and almost invisible. Were it not for the tapping on my keyboard I would be a ghost.
Or perhaps I am, regardless.
There are a pair of very fat, little sparrows watching me as I type.
I have my laptop splayed open in front of me and a mug of overpriced caramel hot chocolate between my arms as my fingers graze the keyboard. My eyes do not stray from the monitor, I am fixated on the text that seems to magically appear in sporadic bursts.
I’m doing the all to familiar courtship with my computer and brain. Words flow freely for moments at a time then I forget how to think or what language my mother tongue is.
Slowly I lure text from words silently mouthed until my fingers are a blur of movement once more. Touch typing faster and faster as my mind whirs and the cogs within me are spinning and jarring at an alarming rate.
I write of being romanced and falling in love, like whoops:
the world suddenly looks upside down and my heels are reeling about above my head. The fluttering in my chest cavity is becoming rhythmic and my cheeks are flushed flamingo pink.
I feel empty and full in the same breath. My organs, all but my heart, have evaporated and been replaced with fuzzy warmth.
I write of depression and guilt.
I write how sad I am or how confused,
or hurt I feel.
I write of all my failed relationships that I am kinda glad to be rid of. I buried them six, hell fifty, feet under and while I dug day and night my soft hands blistered and my soft soul tore and bled.
I grew callous and callouses formed on my skin. I looked hideous from all the hate so I tended to my scars and convinced them to wear flowers and wreaths hand woven. Sprout new life; new love.
I am accustomed to hurt and the sensation of insignificance but I was not built for this world where you are always stuck between a rock and a hard place.
I am soft, so soft, too soft.