An Infinity of Inconsequential Beauties

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.

We discuss pizza styles at lunch, And the overdone disgust at pineapple Is gently ushered off stage, Its fifteen minutes of fame well and truly over. Now it joins the graveyard of topical small talk, One more cliché casualty of people's deficiency of creativity. What is missing is often consistency, A hypocrisy in only deeming that one outlier blasphemy, When any Italian has strong opinions about anything made outside of Italy. It was never about the pizza, It was always a socially acceptable target of harmless debate, The appearance of a position without requiring original thought, Without requiring anything actually interesting to say. I wonder what the next topic du jour will be; Probably something equally inane.

Over the course of months, A portable lamp with built-in battery Slowly gets dimmer. Day by day the change isn't noticeable, But eventually it's too weak to part the darkness. There's no failing to be found, Just physics and the laws of reality That cannot be defied just by trying harder. The solution isn't force, It's to find the connection point, Rest, And recharge.

I enjoy the sun on my skin For as long as it deigns to grace our skies, Not hiding in the clouds. Soon its warmth will be blocked by the horizon, But I know that even as the night approaches And the chill sets in, That tomorrow is waiting for us, And it will greet us warmly and kindly like a friend.

Facebook and instagram go down, Not loading thanks to whatever new likely-AI-related incompetence Causes cascading failures until they're unusable, And all I can think of Is that maybe now I can stop doomscrolling. Maybe a smoker quits the moment their carton runs empty.

The signature dish is underwhelming. The reason we came to this restaurant Is a mid-size sedan pretending to be a sportscar. Worse, It is a mid-size sedan for the price of a sportscar; Decent, But not worth what it cost. The item we added after the fact, Unsatisfied with what had already arrived, Is the best bite we eat all night. Earlier I mentioned that expectation is the root of disappointment. I am proven right.

When the human body gets old enough, Fragile plastic on the verge of disintegrating, Telomeres frayed like bleach-damaged hair, We lose progress. Legs forget how to walk, Eyes are too weak to open, And soon you are a baby stuck in a bed, Unable to do much but sleep, Reverted in every way except the one that matters. There is no rebirth waiting for us, Just mother earth welcoming us back into her womb. If only we could be jellyfish.

The party is over. It's been over for weeks, But two mylar balloons are still surviving in the corner. They're slowly deflating, But they're still there, Two revellers trying to stay alive Even as they sink And wrinkle And sag. I find it oddly inspiring, The way they fight, Even as the life bleeds out of them. I wonder how long they'll hold on. I wonder how much breath is left In my lungs.

There's more in the guts of this machine than I would have imagined. All of it is caked in epochs of petrified dust That regular maintenance will not dislodge. I wash it off, And scrub with an old toothbrush. It is cleaner now, And after it dries I put it back together, Carefully making sure everything is where it's meant to be. I'm surprised it all fits. I swear it's lighter. I swear it shines.

I make sure that the bins are out. I remember moving them, But to check is a matter of minutes And may prevent a big problem come tomorrow. I did indeed move the bins already, But the peace of mind is worth the extra time.

It is different to what I've grown accustomed to, But it is still familiar. Solitude is an old companion who's due for a reunion. I enjoy the peace while it's visiting.

The world won't end because you made a mistake. There's nothing to be gained from beating yourself up For something that cannot be changed. The past is immutable, No matter how much you wish that isn't the case. Better to focus on tomorrow And make sure it doesn't happen again. So pick yourself up, Wipe the tears from your face, And know that everything will be okay.

Others don't see it at first, And take a moment to look closer. It takes them focus to do what is now instinct, And I realise that we live different lives. I realise that some of us walk through minefields That others don't even notice.

There's something about a cold winter's night. There's something in the air That takes me away from Sydney and into the memory of another city. For a moment the signs are in Japanese And vending machines line the street And the foreign and familiar meet In a mix of ozone and urban pollution. For a moment the boundaries of the world blur And I can almost believe that Tokyo is just around the corner. For a moment there is possibility, Frozen potential, A fragile bubble waiting to burst.

But consider self-sacrificing behaviour. Consider long shifts and stressing to save lives, Consider a profession centred around helping others Often at the expense of oneself, Burning out like ash in the wind. Smoking starts to make sense, A lungful of heat to stave off the hollowness and blunt the exhaustion, Just one more self-destructive way to feel alive.

There is no perspective at ground level, Lost in the trees, Unable to differentiate one from the others. They are all brown and rooted to the ground And too big and heavy to carry. But the moment your eyes are opened wide as you fly, The moment you are forced to witness the entirety of the forest And the future that stretches to the horizon, The path forward becomes clear.