It's infinitely true

Why do you steal the covers, sleep diagonally, jump, twitch, thrash about? You stretch your arms out to hold all four pillows, wrap yourself in a cocoon of doona, selfish little bug! Your limbs are spread like a starfish, you kick, turn, mumble, breathe like a freight train? I had strange dreams, I say, I had funny dreams, I say, I had stressed dreams, I say. Sometimes I wake up bemused, confused, amused, other times my eyelids fling open and I am paralysed with fear, wanting to turn the clock back 15 years so I could smell Oil of Olay moisturiser and feel cool hands smooth back my hair.

I scoffed at the overpriced 3am notebook, for the recording of thoughts and dreams had in the dead of the night. But now I rake my memory for dreams from past nights and I can't, they are leaves that have felt the brunt of the evening rain and are now sodden, mulched into the grass, unidentifiable from one another. We should have raked the lawn.

The buses used to line up at the curb, next to the gymnasium that had such a dusty floor. They were really lined up in some kind of pecking order based on location. With that said, the pack of sweaty and wild-eyed individuals bound for the city centre waited in the scorching sun, no relief. The last bus had a sad stringy gum tree and fence posts that offered leaning opporunities, so maybe it was worthwhile, living where I did. Arguable, though, given the number of times we watched Wizz Fizz being snorted up nasal cavities, arse cheeks being pressed against the back window, fruit and stale sandwiches being thrown back and forth, grubby fingers pressing the bell with no intentions of getting off the bus, and the driver hitching up his shorts as he strode down the aisle to where the culprits sat, threatening to throw us all off on the side of the freeway.


For three months a year, when the cold and grey winter persisted, the slick of green grass that ran parallel to the bus stop became perilous. When the rain bucketed down, the grass became a stage, a slippery slope of doom that saw many scurry too fast and fall to social injury in efforts not to miss the bus. In the navy jumpers that reeked of wet dog when it rained, we piled aboard. One headphone for each, we would share Discmans, in efforts to block out the surrounds.


You were in my dream, I was playing in a band. I know you’re horrified, because my complete lack of rhythm, tone deafness and lack of social etiquette used to make you cringe on a regular basis. Why were we so compelled to sit on the concrete, the cold dirty ground? We were drawn to the curbs, stairs, patches of grass, benches, fences, window ledges. Then we grew up, and now we stand and wait in uncomfortable shoes.