Potential Energy

I feel all the potential energy of the world crowded up inside my heart like the potential energy of a leaf falling from the height of a cloud.  How at the top it is light but when it lands the whole world will shake.  All of the what ifs and could haves are settled inside of me, building up energy from being contained.  They sit there waiting to fall.

Photography by Ileana Skakun: https://unsplash.com/search/heart?photo=dNjMqj4emkc

Stage

It’s 9:40am on a Sunday morning at the train station.

Beside me there’s a woman seated in the waiting area huddled around a pizza box. Her face is not within view, it is inside the box, ravenously consuming the slices; her head is bowed in shame. It seems as though she is committing a most intimate act and is trying not to draw attention towards herself.

Across from me, there’s a mother caring for her autistic son, while her daughter slaps her with resentment. The mother kindly turns to look him in the eye and says “Mathew would you like some food” he makes a groaning noise back, which she knows how to interpret much better than I. “Are you sure, you don’t want an egg sandwich?” “Groan.”   The mother makes a scathing remark about her husband and how useless he is. The daughter responds with “If you don’t care, then why the heck did you bring him” pointing to her brother, “you paid for everything hotel, show, everything, why, what’s the point?”

Next to me, there are two men in their mid-twenties moaning in agony over headaches that will not abate and musings over last nights affairs. One of them pulls up a half-naked photo of a woman on his phone and points it to the other and they chuckle together, sharing a pat on the back, and proudly celebrating their conquests.

I am sitting here watching, and listening to the performance.

There is another man a few seats over. He is in his late twenties with circular glasses framing his green almond eyes, red pants to match his red shoes, an old-fashioned button-up wool vest and a bowler hat. He is feverishly typing away on his computer. Perhaps he is writing about the sad uninteresting-looking girl who is a few seats down and seems transfixed to her phone. I depressingly wonder about the words that are going into writing my story.

I suppose “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.”

Poetic Archaeology

I want to capture that feeling when the words slide off your pen effortlessly, as if they had always existed in that unique combination. They only use your hand to bring themselves closer to permanence. Like painting watercolour over a message scribbled in white crayon, the script was always there it just needed to be noticed, to be uncovered. And so I’ve blissfully resigned myself to a life of poetic archaeology.