Walking at Dusk: My Inner Monologue

I have an inner monologue that is constantly running, like the voiceover in some off-beat Australian dramedy. Walking down the street is like the first sequence of ‘Offspring’: an endless stream of socially anxious white noise combatting the meditative silence of open air.

Tonight’s sky appears as a greenish blue, rather than the deep blue I normally gaze upon. Sunset and smog have coalesced to form a gross misuse of nature. What is a horizon line to do in a sky so blurred? Valleys should be green and the sky should be blue – though I’m not sure when I last saw a valley anyway.

I’m going away soon. There are fruit trees there.

I know the sounds bubbling to the surface of my brain with each breath become words when given a space to settle. Yet, so quickly after their arrival, they stream and ooze out of my ears and eyes and nose. My bottom lip could belong to a Pelican, drooping as it holds in wells and wells of phonemes and noise. They melt out before I can catch them.

If I could do it, catch them I mean, it’d be like driving fast on an empty freeway at night time. Knowing where I’m going but not being too fussed with the route. Speeding without risk of crashing. Seeing in front of me at all times.

I’m going away soon. There are fruit trees there.