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State of torment in lockdown and COVID-19 State of torment in lockdown and COVID-19
by Abigail George
2020-05-15 11:31:46
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I fall to the stars; vigilante-like and it is if my name is Cal and I am living in East of Eden, and me and Hemingway kiss and Rilke and I are neighbours. The earth swallows me whole like a lake. I lay there completely still and turn into ghost- heir faking the soul of an apparition. Don’t know what’s to become of me, don’t want to live, don’t want the exit out. Don’t want war, don’t want this volcano shooting through the air as if it somehow belongs here more than me. I don’t understand. I don’t understand this equation. Is it a science, is it mathematics, is the solution elegant? It requires graphs I am told or a revolution. Salvation is found there where the anchor is in the ocean, holding onto the blue desire of the sky. I don’t wish you were here anymore. The shroud falls. Turns into snow. Everything tastes metallic.

safrcor01_400A heatwave rises up within me without any blue reason and the world divided us with a grieving avalanche, melting glacial walls, climate change, and my sister’s voice came from far away. I don’t know how to be in a relationship, but she’s in love. He stays over. She tells me she doesn’t have any friends, but she has Dominic. She tells me she’s lonely, but she’s climate change. Once you were like home, like any sanctuary and I was safe as houses in a tsunami and then you were gone. You wanted to live. You wanted to fall, and you did. You did. You won’t be showing up here at my door anymore, daughter, sister, stranger to her homeland, to her tribe, her country, her people.

I don’t believe in the sun, don’t believe in our love like I did before, and we never talk and when we do it is always about you, I exist too but you don’t see me as the sea, or the thin red line through the mountain of bone that makes up our anatomy. The man makes me so happy. The happiest that I have ever been. He makes me want to stand on the steps with my imperfect heart in my hand. I want a daughter that looks like us. I want a son with his eyes. I am tired of this sin. It is not prizewinning. I am tired of this skin. It is not driftwood. I am tired of this sea. Tired of watching the waves that remind me how much I could take. How limited I am now. And I count the ways that this man loves me. He’s become my world. The wonderland requiem of pain is just pain beginning to lose its lustre like daylight. It is like an omen gathering dust on the ash heap somewhere. Everyone knows loneliness. And we have all felt amazing chemistry deep within our goals and plans and interests. I don’t feel as if I am falling apart anymore. I feel whole. I see the outsider for who they are. Loneliness is just a game. Solitude is when we sabotage the illusion of life that we see. Futility stands there ultra-composed, telling me that there’s no going around despair and hardship when it is all that I have ever known. I don’t know if I will die young. I am nocturnal anyway. The man sleeps. I don’t sleep.

The man eats. I don’t eat. The man seems genuinely happy and I am always in the pursuit of it, having known the lack of it for so long. The flowers are shy of the sun, of the planets, of the tides, the currency of the sea. I have to get used to you, one random person said, but he was an important random person. You’re too forward, said another who threw his hands up in the complex air and walked away from me. The man is the sun. He knows all.

Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!


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