What is truth?

At four years old,

I lay on my bed,

Picked my feet up over my head,

And tried to comprehend

.

How could God exist if He didn’t have a mother?

.

I sat on my pastor’s feet,

small arms tight around his calf,

and I asked him then,

But he just laughed.

the flags are waving

the rain’s holding off

police line the road

just like last year

.

Jo says hello

Jane’s running late

my hands are freezing

just like last year

.

the food stalls heat up 

the kids are in line

with fairy floss mouths

just like last year

.

Shane’s out of coins

Sam’s got blisters

there’s sauce on my shirt

just like last year

.

the mayor’s speech is dull

the rain settles in

we all crowd around

just like last year

.

Mike’s car’s blocked in

Mal’s got a crush

I’ve lost my handbag

just like last year

.

the flags all come down

the rain peters out

we’ve got hot chocolates

just like last year.

.

You held my hand

You kissed my cheek

So where are you now?

You were here last year.

they were my friends first

well some of them were

and the others

they could have been

or would have been

if i’d been more like you.

—

and that makes me wish

i was more like you

because then i wouldn’t

have been here a year

as friendless as the day

i packed my bags

mostly of tiredness but a little bit of happiness too. 

let me explain.

i used to play soccer all the time. really, all the time, like in first year uni i played six times a week and that’s nothing compared to the three times a weekday i used to play in highschool. 

then i tore my acl. i had a knee reconstruction a few months after that and then the year long recovery. and then by the time that was all done i was just starting honours and none of my friends played casual soccer any more. so i didn’t start again.

soccer to me is like home. you know the feeling of overwhelming homesickness that sometimes swamps you? well i get that when i see people playing soccer or when i kick a gumnut across an oval. and when i get a soccer ball at my feet, i feel like the world is okay.

now i’m not trying to say that’s a healthy relationship going on between me and soccer. honestly, i think i needed to stop playing and evaluate what mattered in life. but i don’t ever want to totally give it up.

today i suspected there would be a bunch of strangers playing soccer on the uni oval and i was right. i sidled up and slipped into the game and it felt good but also it killed me.

i used to be fit. playing as much soccer as i used to play would have kept me fit anyway, but i also used to jog. now i do nothing other than walking and sometimes pilates. my fitness level is healthy but compared to what i used to have, and what my mind expects when i find myself in a game of soccer, it is pitiful.

i played for half an hour and even during that time i hardly ran at all. i did alright. my game knowledge is just as good as it always was and my footwork is only a tiny touch rusty. the only things holding me back were my lungs gasping for breath and a heartbeat that was, quite frankly, worrying.

conclusion: my life would probably be better if i started some cardio exercise. now.

Ahahahahahahaha. Go to the tag that is your tumblrname and see what tags it suggests are related. Mine has “supernatural” and “spn”. I DON’T EVEN WATCH THIS SHOW WHY HAS THIS HAPPENED. (It is probably a sign that I should…)

When I think of you, two memories always come to mind.

The first.

We were all at a house party. You were drunk in the other room while I was playing pictionary. You wanted my boyfriend to come and look after you but he was drawing, so I went. When you saw it was me all you said was “Oh god, not you.” That night, when I went to leave, I found myself sitting in the car, crying uncontrollably.

The second.

Another party at the same house. My boyfriend and I were leaving because we were both tired and we had to give someone a lift. You begged him to stay and he used me as an excuse. He went to say goodbye to everyone. You and your friends complained that I was no fun, that I ruined parties. I left the room and sat huddled on a sofa. You came to find me. When you saw that I was crying you gave me a hug and said “You know we all love you, right?”

They were there to watch the sunset, not that they had planned it. Their wanderings had brought them near to the beach and they became trapped in the golden light bathing the beige and white buildings. They wandered in the beauty although they couldn’t have said why. Shall we wait for awhile? I’m tired, let’s sit. Let’s walk over there before we leave, oh let’s.

The cruise ship was large on the horizon. Bystanders admired its size and longed for a holiday. The sun, blindingly yellow in a pink-red sky, was dipping close to the ocean, they kissed for a second and then there was a silhouetted ship interrupting the view. We all stood, or sat, or walked and stared. The ship was so large and so near that the entire globe had disappeared, just the pink-red glow remained. As the ship passed on we continued to look at the horizon but no golden disk was to be seen. We all packed up and left, standing and stretching, turning our heads, still not realising the sunset was what we had planned to see, just thinking it was time to leave.

The ship had stolen our sun.

I used to be a bookworm

But you told me I didn’t belong

Never mind that I love reading:

I throw my books around

-

I used to be a real girl

But you told me I didn’t belong

Never mind that my life is healthy:

My curves just aren’t so round

-

I used to be a Christian

But you told me I didn’t belong

Never mind that I love Jesus:

I asked my husband out

-

I used to be Australian

But you told me I didn’t belong

Never mind that this is my home:

Drunken barbecues are not my crowd.

With the patter of the rain

She knocked upon my door

Dripping water in the hallway

And she curled up on the floor.

—

With a humming in the sunshine

She twirled gaily by my side

Bare feet on warm pavement

And her beauty turned me blind.

—

With a whisper in the wind

She said, I’ll see you soon

Gently slipped out of my window

And she faded to the moon.

I ran. I always run. I’m a runner. I’ve learnt that about myself.

I blame the words. They mean too much to me.

The words that come carelessly spilling from a mouth or a page echo in my skull ensuring I hear every possible nuance.

Overthinking? You ask.

No, not really. It all happens in a split second before I run. There’s no time to overthink.

The worst are the times I can’t run. In those cases I shut down. You know what I mean, right? My brain stops working. I stand, numb, ears still accepting the reverberating words but my brain refuses to even translate them. I stand then, and blink, until I’m free to run.

In any case, this time I was free to run and run I did. Away from my email, away from my computer screen. I ran to hide under my covers because secretly I never grew up. But the words are still there, jumping up and down in my head, banging on doors and shouting mean taunts. It doesn’t matter how far I run or how many blankets I pile up. The words are still there and I can’t run away from the inside of my head. Well, not permanently anyway.

After time the hacking sobs will subside. After time the endless stream of tissues will pause. But the words will still be there. The may be quieter now but on the inside of my mind it hardly matters: whispers are just as obvious as shouts. The words never leave and I never stop running.

On my friend’s facebook page there is a photograph of eight guys standing infront of a limousine. I should be standing there. Or at least, if not in that photograph, then the one of them all sitting around the table laughing.

There were some awkward things about being the only girl in a group of guys. They had sleepovers to which I wasn’t invited. If I had been invited, would I have gone? And as soon as you start missing group events you start missing jokes and bits of conversation. I guess I was already starting to fall away from the group by the time the formal came around. Sometimes I think I didn’t try hard enough.

I want to go back and have that formal all over again. I want to spend that one last night with my friends instead of spending it trying to pretend I had something in common with the nice soccer guy who deserved a more attentive date.

I’m not a part of that group anymore and that’s ok. I’m still friends with some of the guys. But I think it would have been a nice memory. These guys had been my friends for all of highschool and I ditched them for people I’d only become friends with that year.

I met a boy who was two people all at once. From the front he had a relaxed but serious face. His hair was slightly messy like he’d just run a hand through it. He wore a dark blue v-neck jumper, like a rugby top but without a collar, and a white t-shirt underneath. He had headphones in his ears and he was everyone’s friend in highschool. Quiet, unassuming but hard working and reliable.

Then he turned around. His top had mud all over the back and didn’t fit well, it stuck out like a sail, as did the white tee underneath, so you could see the back of his boxers sticking out of his pants. He was lazy, dirty and probably a drug addict. His headphones played thrash and he was probably late for detention.

They will tell you it’s a romantic comedy. They are lying. It is definitely both romantic and comedic but we all know that’s not what the phrase “romantic comedy” means. If anything, I would call it a fantasy.

Midnight in Paris is a sweet poem, a collection of paintings, a hummed lullaby and a fairytale.

It reminds me of the breathlessness of beautiful things. It reminds me of the looks you share with close friends in crowded rooms. It reminds me that our dreams and enchantments define us.

I wanted to write something beautiful with

raindrops and misty mornings

tall forests and thin alleyways

she knows him inside out but doesn’t understand.