People are so terribly far apart from each other, and people in love are often at the furthest distance. They throw all that is their own to the other person and fail to catch it and it ends up in a pile somewhere between them and finally keeps them from seeing and approaching each other.
I am married to distance, the three steps between the bed and desk. One is the a-tripping clutter and clothespile by the bed, two the abandoning of pegged up nights waning in the morning light and three out of the magician's hat, dark and snug, I long to stay inside. Some mornings I wake choked full on sleep still, sleeping is escapism and I retreat to sweet slumber and thinking in dreaming, where I can simply pinch myself awake when a bad mare sets in.
One morning there was a dream that woke me up. Yet I stay scrambled on the daybed, half-listening to infantile piano keys, tumbling and dewy. Channel News Asia running on screen, the ceiling fan whirring daintily, the cuckoo peeping out of the wooden clock, and on the tabletop, a forgotten teacup from last night's sojourn. A quiet stillness hangs in the air, almost white almost breaking.
The Sound of White (live)- Missy Higgins
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