The air is like soup and my brain is a mash of desires that cannot be fulfilled. I am trapped in this room while Australia burns. And the politicians keep denying the cause.
I am suffocating on the stupidity of climate denial. I check the apps again. Extremely Unhealthy air is no longer a surprise. When it slides to Moderate I breathe a shallow sigh of relief. It’s amazing how humans acclimatise, become complacent. Sure we need to adapt, but let’s not just put our heads in the sand and hope it passes … because it’s not going to.
If we can’t change the game players who juggle corporate profits and political power, let’s work on what we can do. Talk with your friends and family and love deeply beyond what you already know. Solutions come from baring our souls and being vulnerable. You might want to plant some seeds in the soil and in the minds of those who haven’t yet thought about it.
I’m ready for action. I’m putting on my face mask and heading out into the smoke.
*If you enjoy my writing and want to read about something different I have another site here: https://wordpress.com/view/wildartwanderer.travel.blog
She looked at the tiny droplets of water clinging to the window,
Breathed in the subtle change of air.
The sun was sliding, ever so slowly,
The gentle pause to the end of the day.
‘She’s got quite a spine,’ slammed the undisclosed door.
‘It’s solid, for sure,’ spoke the board of the floor.
‘Yes, the bones are evident,’ revealed the light from the street.
‘I can’t see a thing!’ shouted the shadow of feet.
It was an illusion
Nothing was left behind but the past
In fact she needed nothing more to step into the future
Except the belief that there was one.
Climate Changed her.
The world held her well
Each hard-boned twig that pressed into her flesh
Reminded her that strength and fragility
Exist in the same moment
We crumble and fall
At every moment
And that is the beauty of change
There’s no room for doubt, said the solid, stone house. Let’s reflect on that, stared the window pane. I’m no longer pristine, mumbled the wall at her feet. The lamp tilted her head then spoke in a tone that was somewhat lighter than the old, plastered sheet. You’re somewhere between, not ceiling or floor. It could be worse, groaned the stain on the door.