Melbourne feels like a migraine. A heavy, concrete thudding in all four corners of every room that fills me.
But it also feels soft. The air is thick this time of year, when the mercury still rises above thirty most days. I can feel the weight changing as I move from indoors to outdoors and city to suburbs then regional.
You can’t see inside windows like you can in the countryside where I grew up. You can’t see into eyes either, everyone is hiding behind bricked up facades and six foot fences— lookin’ pretty, feelin’ ugly.
They say eyes are the windows to the soul but all I see are voids. The light is sucked out of everyone, no glimmers of hope ’cause it’s all nine to five in business casual or ladies on arms or men inside purses.
Vibrations are hasty, everyone moves too fast or too slow and I get impatient in crowds.
All the love is lost—
people are looking only for a hookup or a good fuck or someone they can brag to their friends about without ever having to commit. When committment is where the joys of challenge originate.
And I wonder if they feel anything at all when they lay pensively in beds that don’t belong to them.
Are they reflecting on their lover or are they contemplating whether or not they should even bother having breakfast tomorrow so they can save a few dollars. Dollars are hard to come by but warmth and emotion seems more far fetched.
But their eyes, it eats me up inside.
Lids are dabbed with colour and lashes are coated in black makeup. Others are bare. They show their broken blood vessels and creases, the build up blocking their ducts, they don’t cry enough. Perhaps they don’t at all. Perhaps they can’t.
Shutters and curtains and mouths are closed until their is a want to get their way. Instead of cute, handwritten signs saying “back in five” all I see are billboards screaming “closed for business”.
Boarded up doorways and gates that are rusted shut belong to the people I pass in the city. Hands shaking hands robotically, chins nodding in forced agreement that yes, we are all human so yes, we must interact. Allbeit hesitantly. Allbeit for financial gain or to climb that one rung higher on societies ladder of success.
People watching and I feel that metropolitan migraine cha- cha- cha-ing its way back into my skull. Think John Brack’s Collins St., 5 pm. The heavy footfalls of professional jerkoff’s striding homebound with their noses so far pointed toward the sky that they’re stepping on the threadbare toes of the poor without so much as a sniffle.
I used to think Melbourne was a spectacle of curiosities, how I have been decieved.
For those few with oil burning bright in their eyes it seems a mere stepping stone to greatness. Somewhere to manipulate until it appears meagre and grey, like the colours in a painting fading from sun exposure. The green is still green and the blue is still blue but the blacks are fading to greys and the reds to pinks and some colours have merged altogether— it’s a mess.
This is where those few fly, jet on outta there and make some vibrant place home.