I don’t know when I stopped writing. I think maybe it was when I started a blog.
But I can you know. Write I mean. I usually use pencils. Or charcoal on black paper. Nowadays I seem to just use a Macbook. A Macbook pro.
I don’t know when I stopped singing. I think maybe it was when I bought a microphone.
I bought a microphone, wiped the dust off my brother’s amplifier and softened my voice. Then. When I thought it was still too loud, I only sung other peoples songs. In the car. On big Australian highways. With the windows up.
I don’t know when I stopped drawing lovehearts and starfish and fairies on my wrists.
I think it was when I started using grown-up pens. My starfish became stars. Pointy sharp ones that accidently drew blood not squiggles.
I think this was sort of the same time I stopped laughing too. I’m not sure. It’s all a bit blurry you see. If I tried to put it all back in place, it wouldn’t make sense anyway. I know I wasn’t alone often. I know at first there were a lot of people. And then there was only one.
Then off came the imaginary aqua wings.
Then out came the glitter from the green eyes.
Then on came the shakes.
Not the good kind. Not the thick chocolate ice cream kind. The other kind. The winter morning in the middle of spring.
That’s right. That’s how it happened. All the things I loved. I bartered them away. I didn’t even try to take them with me. I lost them somewhere on the Brisbane river at midnight. Under fairy lights gripping free champagne and wearing a long black dress. Thinking I could have it all.
And now all I want is to write. Maybe sing. And have the confidence to ruin a white canvas.
Funny isn’t it.