visiona

 The log of Dominik Stevenson, december fifth, 2015 The only real decision in the span of a human's existence is simple: "Live or Die" All other decisions - the ones we were certain were under our control - are up to fate. Like an unfamiliar pathway being walked for the first time, we stumble along, controlled by the hand that controls all. Fate weaves a complicated web of events that all inevitably lead to the final decision; the fork in the road, and when we arrive we are asked the question: "Right, life? or Left, Death?" And should we choose life, we continue on to fight another day, until we reach the next fork, and the next, and

 Attempt to Understand The air on the platform is laced with smoke, though there are no lit cigarettes around. It's almost as if the tar has seeped into the brick and flimsy plaster walls, caught mercilessly in each particle and captured subsequently in the senses of all the daily commuters. There's always something happening, that's what I like about the station. To the left, a man in his fluorescent uniform walks by wheeling a 6-foot-high mountain of C-grade toilet paper, rough and cheap, smelling strongly of D-grade detergent, and a woman tries in vain to pick up the wafer-thin five-cent piece with ridiculously long, fake fingernails.

The beauty of my surroundings is marred by the unmistakeable -though distant- roar and buzz of cars, bikes, trucks changing gears. For a moment, I think I can hear the sound of politicians denying their home a second chance, and then, in the millisecond of silence between third and fourth gear, I see the end. I see the sudden flood and the buffeting wind, stopping each car in its well-worn tracks as panic overtakes the occupants- trapped in their massive metal-and-plastic coffins. And as death flies forward to meet them on the wings of nature's gusting wind, and flowing on the swells of nature's floods, as mankind suffocates collectively

I want to be a penniless writer, despite all its peaks and troughs. I always have, since I was small, and throughout my life, the warnings of: 'it's a hard life, dear, always searching for success, constantly meeting failure.'  But words such as those didn't succeed in discouraging my little flame of hope. Even now- when my romantic view of the writer's life has been jettisoned to keep determination afloat- I can do naught to dispel the desire for a writer's harsh existence. I want it all; the day-job at K-Mart, the night-job at the Irish pub down the road, the late nights and early mornings, the fight to make ends meet, and the scrabble am

To my eye, it seems he is alone, But in his mind a thousand men are at his feet, His audience is the dappled sun that warms his back, The koi that gather by his seat, The stares of strangers at his back, His accompaniment is the whisper of lovers, The laughter of children, The droplets of water that fall from saplings, And the roaring of the silence in his ears is his tumultuous applause, Which flows through his veins like the wind on across face, He plays a lonely concerto to hush the terrible silence in his soul.

My flight is cut short by a thud, And a searing, shrieking scream, Creation, I can't breathe but I gasp for air, I can't think but my mind is spinning, And there's a word on my lips, Creation, I hear it through my ears, Though they're full of dirt, And blades of grass plug my throat- like tiny knives, Searching for purchase on my tonsils, They cut out the word I need, Creation, And they fling it out, Rolling it over my tongue, Letting it go... Exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, And one more time, as I roll onto my back, and face the grey sky, "Creation." As a shadow fills my vision, Calling out my name. "Creation." But t

The first cut is long and deep, severing something inside that's harder than the flesh I mangle. 'This is for the greater good' I hiss, placing my knife in position for another incision, and cringe at the sound it makes as it slices through inches of skin, of flesh, of bone. Crimson and white liquid seeps to the surface and I grin, 'nothing better' I say aloud... 'Nothing better than what?' calls my Mum from the lounge room, 'Have you cut that fish properly?"' 'Yes Mum,' I call back, rolling my eyes, 'but I thought it was supposed to be boneless!?'

Summer was a dizzying mess of emotions and sweat, Of waking up under a pile of bent cigarettes and a stranger, His slow pulse beating in your ear, A quick hand and a pungent hangover smell. Of sleepless nights of laughter, Taking someone's couch, Someone's Hand, Someone's meaningless love. Of lounging with greasy hair, And that sharp body odour, At 3 Pm in your Pyjama pants and bra, Singing dated rock ballads. And then the wall, The sobriety of approaching autumn, Of study, of clean nights with a text book, Missing the dirty nights with a bottle and a boy. Then finally, Through the grime of a metro train, His expression

"I'm crazy, aren't I?" Silence. "Ignorance is bliss." "Well great. Thanks. I'll take that as a yes." "Everyone's a little crazy." "Cop-out." "Oh, come on." "You're saying that to be nice." Silence. "You'd probably be insulted if I said you were normal." "Probably. Normality is dull." "Am I dull?" Silence. "Ignorance is bliss." "Ignorance was bliss."