in the ideal world

i would, foremost, play the piano and guitar and cello. and i would sing well.

small, nondescript, fringe pubs frequented by the heartbroken and mocked by the popular would allow me to sing on the occasional weekends their entourage of heartbroken and (thus) brilliant musicians fall too lovesick to perform. on these nights i will take the stage and sing into the microphone. i will imagine gazes at me, and on the final night when i do summon enough unwarranted courage to peek at the audience i will realise the floor empty save the janitor cleaning up, who is deaf because of the war. a war, any war.

nights at the rented attic. frantic writing, always writing, always reading, always churning strings of words. i will paste these strips of semi-poetry on noticeboards, on the backs of toilet doors, in lifts, in fitting rooms, and most importantly, on the tables of all the cafes obscure enough to be crowded with fellow striving struggling writers. we will be one in our paper chase.

because i will be poor and mad (hmm. actually..lol), i will no longer have qualms about talking to people about the realities of their lives. i know about you, and i notice more than i let on. after all, pretending to be stupid is firstly more convenient, and secondly not all that far off the mark because i am truly an unaccomplished being.

see the world and the skies from different places, face upward eyes closed pasted smile and deep inhalations, loud sighs. no one around so i can imagine in entirety your fingers through my hair