mortar and pestle
Only four more days to languidly savour before I leave Sydney to return to my life. Four days of the simple joy of having home cooked meals, of spontaneously hugging my mum at random times of the day like I used to when I was five; of wearing my brother's clothes and his feigned outrage at every discovery, of the casual falling into our first discussion of our love lives -our murmurs low and conspiratorial as we listened for the telltale noises of mum's presence downstairs, seamlessly shifting into talk of music as she came into the room; of stilted conversations with my dad as we sit in chinese restaurants having lunch - my fingers tracing patterns in tea on the table.
I visited some of my old haunts yesterday. On the long stone wall in Newtown that seperates an oddly beautiful cemetary from a park, there's graffiti that's been there since I was kid. A few of the savage black letters are slightly obscured but you can still read it on the pitted sandstone.
Hands held violently onto words that meant nothing.
I visited some of my old haunts yesterday. On the long stone wall in Newtown that seperates an oddly beautiful cemetary from a park, there's graffiti that's been there since I was kid. A few of the savage black letters are slightly obscured but you can still read it on the pitted sandstone.
Hands held violently onto words that meant nothing.