In my life, there have been very few moments I’ve stood still - bewildered in some bushes as a snake roared past, terrified as my grandma slithered away, and confused as a car drifted at incredible speed into my knees. And recently, I stood still again, watching green pants disappear past a park.
There seemed an ever-present stench of sour garbage in our apartment, the likes of which I’d only smelt out the rear of suburban Vietnamese restaurants. Broken glass glistened on the kitchen floor, but in my melancholy, I merely drew a deep breath and walked barefoot to my desk. I wrote here for several hours about my disbelief at a life without the green pant wearer, until I again made the journey across the kitchen to fetch a banana. The subsequent fifteen minutes was spent removing shards with thumb and forefinger and remembering stories of heartache from books and movies and the Rose St market flyer distributor.
The last few days have been spent standing still, again, and considering the flight of empathy with a cigarette between cut fingers and a fedora pulled well over my brow.
