The Current State Of My Brain

It’s weird to think that I don’t have a bedroom any more, at my parents house. Because my brother has violated his bed time (I never had these rules..) multiple times, caught playing online games at 3am and then having school reports detailing his tiredness, he has made my room his own. The parental have made him sleep inside, not in his old room, which is now a children’s room, but my room. Michael now has two bedrooms.

Think about having two bedrooms! His stuff strewn between the two, his heart in one room and his sleeping head in another; his school uniform in my room and his other life in the massive sleepout full of old couches and computer parts and a table or two and a pervasive sense of.. SMELL. When that room was full of unwashed males in their late teens, it was pretty unbearable. And then they would all come in my room. I remember the day I showed ‘Anthropology of Youtube’ to Michael’s friends, in my room. I loved that they loved it, ‘cause they spent their days wandering the streets, jobless, sometimes homeless, definitely void of learning. But my room smelt reeeal bad after, Mrs. Potts looking overhead. I remember once I told one of them to have a shower. He didn’t like that very much. But when you’re twenty years old and haven’t showered in days, you should expect a vocal seventeen year old girl to tell you to shower when you sit on her bed for an hour and watch Youtube. You know.

When I was fourteen I had a party in that sleepout and a girl pushed a boy and he fell through the window. It wasn’t the girls fault, the windows are ancient and brittle and who has windows facing into a carport anyway?

Anyway. The thought was that when I go home I will actually be living out of a backpack. Actually in a room not my own. A room with a pushchair and a highchair and children’s toys. Actually in a bed that cost thirty dollars from an opshop that is a lot smaller than a single bed, that I slept in for all of my last year of school. I was stoked when I found that bed. Isn’t it odd, when home changes? Isn’t it? Isn’t it? It’s okay though. I don’t know. I like how Elysia calls me Sonyabird. It fits. It fits.

I don’t need to tell you all how hard I’m finding to do my assignment. It assures me that history is not my true calling. Every time I start writing appropriate words on a page ‘Colossians aims to correct’ were my first four words, it ends in a poem, or going back on to gmail to reflect on the poem Taylor sent me or I sent Taylor, or looking at poems I have written, or others wrote, or wondering about Australia and Anna and Wellington and living in Wellington or living on a roof  and cold sleeping bags and how every year at Guy Fawkes we climb on the roof, or that week I was home alone and I was convinced someone was on the roof or or or how I am hungry and how hummus is vegan and how I wonder how I will get through a degree with my brain the way it is and what I will do after. I thought maybe working in a tea shop/house in Europe somewhere and writing poetry could be the way to go. We shall see. I just want to fly away.