I've got no plans for tomorrow.
I've got no plans in sight.
In fact I'm free this week.
I'm free this month.
I'm lonely. Lonely this year.
I'm lonely forever.
But today...
supersox_111@hotmail.com
The mundane and the extraordinary; an eye for the breathtakingly beautiful, for the soul-rendingly grotesque
Lord, give me peace.
It’s such a perfect day.
Breathe.
It’s such a perfect day.
My chest rises and falls, lungs pull in oxygen, give out carbon dioxide; the world turns about me, down in the quay the ferries pull into the docks. Hungry seagulls squawk on the grass, an errant school boy wanders past them.
The city looms in the background, the bridge, too. The sails point into the cloudless blue sky, and Kirribilli watches it all. The tourists, the locals, and me, on the roof, watching my own shadow added to that of the massive, imposing edifice upon which I stand.
It’s such a perfect day.
There are no clouds, not one; just the blue, endless blue. I look into the sky, and feel as though I could fall into it. Let it swallow me; let the breeze catch me, lift me into the heavens and leave me there.
It’s such a perfect day.
The sun doesn’t waver, but the breeze keeps its bite at bay. I can smell the ocean, the tickle of salt in my nostrils. I can hear the birds, above, watch the flags wavering in the breeze. My favourite building is over there, its concrete and vines the thing I look for whenever I cross that bridge.
My hair is messed up; my tie is flying over my shoulder. I look at the city, imagine, the countless stories to be told. ‘Chinese Laundry’; watch this space. ‘New Romantic’ echoes in those urban canyons, at least for me, mingling with the rumble of the trains, the grumble of traffic. Feel this space, feel this moment. I look into the sky, a sky to get lost in, a city to lose yourself in. Feel the breeze, watch the people, hear the birds. It’s such a perfect day.
I didn’t win. But I wouldn’t want to change a thing.
It’s such… such a perfect day.
