An Infinity of Inconsequential Beauties

Someone is sitting on the floor Where a day before a man had a heart attack. There's no markers or tape to isolate the area, No indication of what had happened. Life goes on, Forgetting history, Removing yesterday from living memory, Surrounded by ghosts we never see.

Sometimes, We are too far away or powerless to help. Sometimes there truly isn't anything we can do. I don't know if it's better to watch or look away, But at least as a witness I'm not hiding from the truth.

The frozen pizza is surprisingly good. I'm not sure if it's luck, Magic, Or if somewhere a factory worker just has pride in their job. Regardless of the mechanism behind this miracle I have a good meal. That is magic enough.

Tragedy happens past midnight. A new stain forms on the carpet. I resist the urge to scream, Mindful of the quiet and those dreaming mere metres away. I grab hold of the panic before it can form. I suppress the flailing before my arms start flying. I take it one step at a time, Breath by breath. I keep trying.

You suggest I contact every single place I stay, Try and see if there's still a chance That my keys could be returned to me. You remind me that hope is still an option, That preparing for the worst doesn't mean forgetting the best, That a wilting plant can still be saved. You shoo away the clouds on a rainy day.

The rain comes suddenly, And we can only be grateful that the washing's been moved under cover. Luck was the only thing that stood between clean clothes And starting over, But even so we rush outside just to make sure That we didn't forget anything, That even if luck does not fall in our laps That we make do with our own.

Funerals are too clean. Shiny hearse and pristine flowers, Pressed suits and formal dresses, Everything is perfectly presentable Except the people. The people are crying and sniffling, Snotty and blowing noses into serviettes. Someone forgets to turn off their phone, And there's an issue with the powerpoint that gets fixed in the soundcheck. Appearances are shattered by reality, But that's okay. It's human to want things to be nice. It's also human to mess them up.

The day is guncotton and smoke, Gone before my hands can grasp it tightly. Nothing remains but wisps and vapours, Mist and memories and montage. Earlier someone talked about being concise. Apparently the world is eager to give examples.

We hurry to eat, Urgency dictated by temperature. The chill has seeped into everything, With cutlery and crockery all cold to the touch. Soon it will sap all the heat from the meal. I burn my tongue in the rush, Running into danger while trying to escape from disappointment.

On the morning train, Commuters eye the seats left behind by those reaching their stops. They shift around, Moving from sitting shoulder to shoulder To having seats to themselves. Soon they will reach their own stops, And free up seats for newcomers Sitting shoulder to shoulder, Eyeing up the seats they leave behind.

And with your fingers, And with his voice, I will carry on your duet. I will fill the house with music once again.

My brain leaks out my nose. The weather changes And my mucus decides to mutiny, Turning passages into leaky pipes That drip unpredictably. I feel like a desiccated husk, Sucked dry and left with nothing behind the eyes but a headache.

There is no cure, Nor miracle, Just duty. Just standing vigil, Keeping watch, Guarding a tomb that has yet to be constructed.

Nails grow long, Maintenance delayed In favour of all the fires that need to be put out. Soon they will be too long to be safe, But for now they tap against the ceiling of comfortable, Scraping against fragile glass.

I try to expand my attention span. I hear the wind shuffling through the trees, Leaves shining in the streetlights, Weather not as cold as the night would suggest. There is distant traffic and muffled conversations And the peace of a suburban street when most have gone to sleep. I'm reminded of how a curator friend suggested I try to approach an art gallery; Consider every element and choice, Examine things from different angles, And leave expectations behind. And in this lens a normal street suddenly becomes interesting. It stays on my mind long after my ride arrives.

The elevator is made of wood, Surface scuffed and worn through decades of use. It is different to the shiny modern chrome boxes, Almost warm through the brown tones of a different time. I wonder if this is nostalgia, Or merely appreciating something with character.

Mended pants rip again, Worn away where repairs were made. They become patchwork, Layers of raised scarring that healed as best they could. You can only carry on for so long Before you become more stitching than fabric.