An Infinity of Inconsequential Beauties

I still call it your room, Even though we've disassembled your bed And moved everything around. We've said goodbye for the last time, But even so you still remain. I don't know if this is grief or closure Or just the way memory works. I'll probably keep calling it your room Until something new grows into its identity.

What is the cost of dignity? Is survival worth losing your identity? Or is it better to be stubborn And principled And dead?

They say that after a day of not practicing you can hear the difference, And after three the audience can hear it too. I haven't played the pieces in weeks And yet through some miracle my muscle memory still remains. Maybe the last time I paid enough attention that I haven't forgotten. Maybe it's the deep grooves I've worn into my brain That a light rain cannot wash away. It's no surprise the music has become a part of me. I've held it in my heart for years already.

A secondhand device doesn't come with a charger. It's common enough that I can find one online, But it's still surprising, Given I was expecting everything needed to use it. I think it's ridiculous for that not to be included, But that is the reality of the current moment. And like the reality of the current moment, I will do what I can to fix it.

But if you don't have a jacket, If you are slowly losing feeling in fingers and extremities, Then it is a balm for the soul. And you know that it won't last, And you know that it's still cold, But you know that everyone can do with a break.

That's all that matters, right? A big smile for the cameras, Glitter and a parade, Nevermind the people who died fighting for a better world. Nevermind that people are still fighting, That the struggle is not history it is today, And you've sat down in the middle of the road, Blocking the way, Comfortable with how far we've come. You're comfortable with corporate structure and fiduciary duty And sponsorship from fairweather fucks Who only throw us pennies when it's financially beneficial to look like they care. And you wonder why people look at you in disgust, When it's clear you're a grave robber covered in blood.

I laugh in delight, Always enjoying a look behind the curtain. It is not a magic box, It is as beautifully mundane a machine as any other computer, But it is still magic. There's always a thrill when you figure out how the trick is done.

Mountains of clothes erupt As we each add our own stack to the pile. We share and swap and trade And find new owners for old things That fit better than they did before. It's okay to take more than you give, For everything here is meant to be given away, And to take is to relieve a friend of a burden, To resurrect the forgotten. We celebrate the taking just as much as the giving. To give is to believe in potential. To take is to make it real.

It's easy to get swept up in the money, Not in the sense of greed but momentum, Trying to keep your head above the water by paddling. Bureaucracy and systems slowly accumulate like stalactites, Solidifying until one day you realise you can't move, Until your silhouette is unrecognisable, Until the only thing left is the machine you made to perpetuate itself. You will be miles away from where you started, Lost from all the aimless paddling, As compromise after compromise is made And new blood joins knowing only the machine And not the heart that's bled dry. This is how an idea dies.

I see you've made a deal with the devil. Our discussion on things that you should know stalls As you quickly ask copilot if it has the solution to our problems. I've noticed you're using it more and more To do your thinking for you. It's disquieting, The way a brilliant mind slowly liquefies under its own laziness.

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.