There are many ways in which we fall. We fall in love, of course. We fall into old habits of smoking and nail-biting. We fall off our skateboards and onto the hot pavement, skidding our knees and letting them pool with blood. Whether accidentally or on purpose, we fall often and we fall hard.
Falling hurts. It catches us by surprise. In an instant, we are on the ground, fumbling for lost glasses and lost bearings. In an instant, the view shifts. We fall out of love. We fall into new habits, and who’s to say if they’re any better than our old vices?
While we’re all here, dear starlings, whether we have just fallen into or fallen out of something, let’s take a moment to readjust our gaze. Take a look at the world from the ground up, before eventually getting up. After all, we are all a little bit clumsy.
"Do you want to know why I was named Batas?" She asked him. She asked him as they lied in bed. Their hands were interlaced, like constellations, and she looked at him.
"He believed that everyone has a limit, and he wanted me to be someone's limit someday." She told him.
They’ve been together for one year, and theirs is a relationship explicitly tied to the city of Melbourne, analogue photography and the cultural intricacies of falling for someone completely different to you without a damn.
as you turn grey / I will be naked / since my petals are already falling / to be closer to your roots
My life before consisted of a single answer for any request asked of me: yes. We are each of us born with a well of a heart and over the course of our lives this well perhaps goes dry, perhaps gushes more and more each year, perhaps lessens then steadies.
so at seven years old / my mother told me the most beautiful thing / that roses are the best thing you can be
Arms long and slender with scrawny fingers begin crawling on the cold floor towards my feet. I am crying my heart out. One minute the room is bright but the next it became so black I think I am going to fall. I have trouble breathing. Tears and snot drips down into my mouth. I try to remind myself of my daughter and husband.
Although lonely and uncertain, the self is surely still growing itself out from one form into another. The ever withering and blooming self is an uncanniness that I can still never seem to fully grasp.