midnight meditations on meaning

After a long day, I lay in my bed, listening to the fan whirr, cool wind from the window brushing against my thin shirt; preparing myself to sleep, I stretched my legs, felt the muscles tense and pull, and I thought: I thought about the marvellous, opaque, diamond of a world, and how it produced the first spark of life, of consciousness, a single cell that trembled with agency, and how woefully, miserably meaningless that was - how it evolved, step by painful step, and all the meaningless deaths on the way; life, and how it filled the seas and the skies, and how there were creatures that could scream in agony and in ecstasy, make tools and make wars, and how we evolved from there, how my tensing muscles remind me of my forest roots, my singing seas, my sparks of life that created this complex body based solely on survival and need; I thought about how meaningless it still is, how much more life there is and yet, how little it does, how the sky is a hundred shades of blue and the sea is mighty and tidal, and how they will rest against one another in an endless dance and that will really be all there is in this world, no matter how hard we try to leave scratches on the rocks of our lands - and yet, as I lay there, cool wind caressing my hair, I thought about my day, about how I inhaled the scent of home after months, and how my sister's eyes shone brighter than the sun, how I unpacked my memories disguised as empty boxes and paints and scarves, how sunbeams fall in shafts on my bed, how the books that line my shelf are trembling in eagerness to be read, and how I could smell the spices from the kitchen as I bathed, cool water rushing down the caves of my body to meet with the earth, how summer fills my heart with warmth and I feel clean and alive, how I can still hear the ringing laughter that I laughed today on my parents' bed, limbs intertwined and hands held by warm hands; and I thought about how much joy there is in this world, in my simple life, in a warm day. If there is such joy in this world, can we not find meaning? And if there is such joy, do we really need meaning? And if there is such joy, is it not meaning enough?

homeward bound

home isn't home anymore
it's a place of transit:

home is where I go back to
after things end
and
before things begin.

it is the secret I hide
in my pockets.
the word that i say
when I want to leave -
even if it's not really
where I want to go.

home is the smell
of lemongrass incense
clinging to my hair.
the half-smile on
my father's face.

it will be sunshine
in the summer -
everywhere, shafts
of solid light falling
on furniture and floor.

home is the music
my mother listens to
when everybody goes to bed.
the sound of it wafting down
to my bed, raining down
nostalgia.

it is where I always return
to settle in my skin, if only
for a few days - where everything
I've learnt and unlearnt in all the time
I've been away untangles slowly, and
falls into place in my mind. that's home.

right now
I'm almost homeward bound

I reek of exhaustion:
sleeplessness buried in bags under
bloodshot eyes, and
my mind an overfull cup.
mosquito bites and bruises
leave purple blossoms on my skin.
my bones, made of shafts of light,
ache. throb. sigh.

home:
I need you to caress me
as gently as you can.

sunshine music

listening to sunshine music
at 4 am - humming to Nietzsche
under my breath,

i'm feeling all of summer at once:

the heat that rises up my spine
and murmurs on my skin like dust;

the songs that wrap themselves
in my arms and ask me to listen;

memories of faces that once
lived inside of my life and composed
the harmonies of my days - faces
that faded faster than smoke,
whose curves and smiles
i can't quite recall anymore.

summer murmurs different melodies
to me every moment -

the joy that flutters in warm wind,
and the summertime sadness
that settles on my shoulders,
heavy as light.

there are
new faces now.
they change
in darkness and light.
there are
new eyes i want to confide in
but i am shaky and restless, unstable,
i'm floating - trying to learn
from wild hearts that break mine.
my heart says it's wild
but really, its a baby, and it doesn't
understand the nuances of the world.
afraid of rawness. afraid of settling.

sunshine music settles in my heart
like wildflowers. warms my shoulders.
it is heavy as light.

summersong

this sneaky sun
finds its way everywhere

slips under my bedsheets,
winds itself in my hair,
hides in corners.

summer beats down
relentlessly

names every month
may
and sings a song
of fire

weaves a blanket of sun
on the world: cobbled streets,
concrete walls, dying grass.
sun lays itself down,
burns through skin
lights up the white secrets
of my bones and flesh.

my fingers are laced with sun.

music

fingers tapping to the beat
sitting politely in my bell jar
i smile - milkshakes and madness,
fingers laced with fog, silly heart.
i wish i could make music
mellifluous and kind

something that you could
weave around yourself
like a blanket
or the ocean.