21st of the 12th, 2000 and 12.
Bus route: M40
This is another date of significance. 3000 years ago, The Mayan’s created a calendar. And it’s date end’s today. End of the world as we know it.
As we know it.
they’re the key words in that sentence.
Does this mean a spiritual change or a physical change? No body really knows, although the Peruvian’s take it to mean a new consciousness; a shift in perspective and priorities. And that doesn’t seem such a bad thing. Then there are those that believe in the Tablets of Thoth, and Atlantis, and then again, it could truly be a self-prophesised state of affairs.
Depends on how the thousands of cultures around the world take it. if the world is going to end, why not be the one to do it? That fame, or infamy, can be a mighty temptation. However, short lived.
oops sorry, got distracted looking out the window.
Harbour Bridge – Suicide lane.
Anzac Bridge to the left, cloudy day on the harbour but snatches of blue sky hang back, letting the chunky puffs of cloud cross over.
Observatory Hill. A lone bench waits under the majestic Moreton Bay Fig. Always a witness.
Flashing screens rest in the hands of this final day’s commute.
It’s good to smile. To see a smile. A genuine affection.
It’s also good to find a coffee. plonked myself at a cafe in the city now. Decided to take a tourists approach to breakfast. There are certain parts of Sydney that truly remind me of New York. not that this is one of them, but just that whole touristy feeling. Been so long since I’ve been a tourist traveller, or a travelling tourist. How about a travelling local – I am a local member of this earthly community, am I not? Either way, it’s long overdue. To run my hand along ancient walls.
A glimmer catches my eye. It’s just the moving reflection of a widow being forced open. Letting in, and inviting all this corner has to offer.
I’m not a stranger here. My “G’Day” is as authentic as they come. Yet the ties which bind this are not blood. There is nothing about me. No cell, no appendage that was created by Australia. However, we are all star-dust, and land mass doesn’t need names to exist. For all that makes up Australia, makes up me. We are one and the same. From dust we came, dust we are, and to it we return.
Perhaps.. it is within each of us that the world will end.
Perhaps.. it is my responsibility to take the step forward, the movement towards a heightened understanding of this strange life and world I’m inhabiting.
I like wearing my sunglasses. It let’s me look at people, admire them, enquire of them. My previous one’s were dark, and these new ones not so much. So I think people can see my eyes now when I’m looking at them.
Behind these lens’ lie lens’ – a lifetime of witnessing, absorbing, contemplating and judging. And yet, many more lifetimes will walk past me; with their own loves, regrets, their thoughts of self-reliance and responsibility. Not all have real dreams left. The death behind the lens’ is already visible – old, young doesn’t matter; they’ve given up on reaching anywhere near where they were promised; what they’ve been led to believe was possible within the miasma of collages this life really is.
But the driving force is still there. They still walk. A whimper, but a flicker is more than enough to get a flame going.
It’s Christmas, and I’m on holidays. It’s time for me to stop talking, and start being all of the above and more – until the love I have inside is not blocked by those I throw my arm over as I sleep. I have so much to give, yet so few seem able to truly accept it.
Surely. Someone new. Someone able.
And the urge to continue writing goes on – almost as a requirement of allowing myself this delicious, expensive breakfast, at this lovely cafe. If I don’t write in this journal, then i’m just another lonely person, eating breakfast alone. But with these sunglasses, headphones, notepad and pen – well! I could just be that incognito journalist, or that fancy traveller, maybe that restaurant critic they’ve heard about.
Not just some hungry, tired, mid 30’s chick with bed head on her way home from a night out, writing line after line of just random thoughts in a cheap journal to make herself look busy.