Tuesday in November
It didn’t rain.
The line between cold and hot, lonely and mocked, was paved over without a sound.
It was a Tuesday.
It was a clear sunny day, just over four degrees.
When the ozone layer dislocated its joints and stretched into oblivion.
It’s tireless work ignored, without tears, the ground below rattled,
the sound of death missed
As my eyes cast down to my belly
Picking at scabs that could never heal.
We pounded lands with missives of self-hatred
And the oceans boiled in reply, spewing out its victims
Suffocating their screams with our convenience.
I turned away, pulled around my coat, gulping at the air
Planning my end in festive lights.
Mouths flapped, shining teeth prolonging the illusion
As we elected Self-destruction by proxy
Billowing clouds spun, consumed with rage for our ignorance
Beating on our breasts to be heard.
I clawed at my coffee cup, sipping up the despair
Content on setting my final sentence.
I chose my poison, that day in November.
By 3pm it was done.
I lay down, as the line faded from unwanted view,
I chose this date with no year to illustrate the what-if. What-if there was a date between our survival and ultimate extermination? What if that date had passed and we looked back at what we were doing that day and the days preceding. Would we have done anything differently? Could we?
I asked myself that question. I am under no illusion that I have a moral highground here. I am part of the problem. The threads of my existence are tangled up in the ways of our civilisation. I do what I can, I recycle, I reuse, I shout, I cajole… It’s not enough, those actions, that tinkering at the edges. It feeds my guilt. No more. I am fixed in place by those threads. Each pull just tightens the grip.
I see the question I need to ask myself is not what can I do to change rather why can I not? What hold does this civilisation have on me?
It’s a hideous and ugly thing to face head on, the realisation I have been choosing a slow drawn out suicide, opting for unreality, losing myself in this collective psychosis.
Why can I not change?
I ask myself again. And I imagine that Tuesday in November is this year. That this is all the time I have, we have. 6 months, 26 weeks to change. To cut those threads and walk away.
How can I not?