I go to the river to find you…

The best footprints are left in muddy grounds from a night’s rain. The outline of your shoe perfect atop a dash of grass and a few twigs.

I love exploring new places with old friends. I find it much more enjoyable than enjoying old places with new friends. Walking through the paths of the past is beautifully haunting…

I wonder if she’ll be around the bend…

There are a few things you should know about the Australian bush. One is that there are little openings that are like small pockets. In these small pockets are heavy rocks that are easily lifted. Now, if you bypass these rocks and check the very edges of the pockets, you’ll find the lizards baking in the summer’s sun.

My brother was the lizard hunter. Hell, once we spent all day digging out a red belly black snake. Another time we chopped down a tree to catch a Goanna. The next day It escaped, climbed the neighbours’ tree and made the birds wake all the neighbours.

Once we occupied the same space, but now we’re in a different time…

I know that trail like the back of my hand. I know the bridges, the rivers, the waterfalls and the cliffs. If my brother were here today he’d give me advice. He’d say
something horrible, funny and true. I remember him giving me advice about school when I got a bad report card. He said, “why would you let those fucking cunts beat you?”.

I’m treading new grounds this year. I’m not sure what decision is right or wrong. All I know is that it’s wrong not to make them.

Do we ever learn how to let go? I feel like all the people I love are sitting with me on a river bed, but every time I blink, one by one, they each appear on the other side of the water…

And I’m alone.

As night cuddled day to sleep

All I heard were your soft feet.

But silence crept out from the deep

Taking what I wished to keep…

I looked to you, but you weren’t there.

On the other side, silhouetted fair

Just a figure on the river’s edge

Standing lone upon the ledge.


Thanks for reading The Vile Mint. If I was able to spark your imagination, make you think or open your mind to new perspectives, please leave me a comment. I love hearing from readers and building relationships. God Bless.


A week of trekking through torrential rain has my energy depleted, but as I turn my eyes to the sky I see her. The oldest tree in existence. I fall to my knees beneath the terrifying branches that hang over me like the pain of time pressing on my chest.

In my delirium I get to my feet and press through the sinking mud to the base of the great tree. The wind laments it’s warning in accelerated oscillations, throwing rain through the darkness, but it’s too late now. I’ve come too far.

I throw a rope around the oak. The creatures dwelling inside flee their home. The fear paints their faces with each lightning strike. I tie the rope and jump down from the tree.

It’s time.

I pull with all my might. The rain falls through the canopy. The rope burns my hands until they bleed. The deepest roots that hold the fabric of the universe together start to vibrate and quiver. They Scream, “Why? Why are you doing this?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I don’t stop pulling. As I use every single cell in my body to pull, it starts to end.

The world begins to slow in it’s spin. The roots start to tear through the surface of the earth, but they desperately cling to the ground like a child’s hand as she’s being dragged into torture.

The world slows even more…

I know what I’m doing, but I can’t stop. I’m looking for forgiveness as I’m committing the crime.

The wind and rain and lightning all form a harmonious plee in the last second of time until:


The world’s stopped spinning.

In shame. In loneliness. I sit upon the centre of the universe. The great tree is nothing more.

Written by Randall Evans


Thanks for reading The Vile Mint. If I was able to spark your imagination, make you think or open your mind to new perspectives, please leave me a comment. I love hearing from readers and building relationships. God Bless.

Instagram and Self Sabotage


Yesterday I was in a doctors waiting room and the mother next to me started to breastfeed her little girl.

I almost vomited.

What an unattractive, disgusting bimbo she was.

Oh, I’m sorry. Let me explain. As the absolutely gorgeous child was drinking her mother’s milk, the mother was scrolling instagram. Now, this in itself wasn’t bad until I noticed that every single photo was of a photoshopped model. Their perfectly shaped curves reflected off the child’s eyes as she drank.

I understand why men follow hot girls on instagram, but why do women? Men are visual creatures. Men are weak. The moral compass of the average man is based on what is socially acceptable. All men do it, but what makes it even easier for men to follow insta-porn is that women do it too.

Why do women follow sexy fitness models?

The instagram feed we hold in our hand is a manifestation of our desire as well as the confirmation of our own belief. Now, what does that mean?

We believe we aren’t good enough, so we follow someone who we believe is better than us. Our belief of inadequacy subconsciously tells us to follow what we want to become. We believe we aren’t good enough, so we choose every spare minute we have reminding ourselves that we aren’t good enough.

Isn’t this… Fucked up?

Or, maybe you think it’s healthy to constantly bombard your senses with the most beautiful people in the world showing off the best luxuries in the world while you wonder why it’s so hard to leave the house without putting on make up? Maybe you think it’s a wise to replicate the attitude of people who’s success is based on nothing more than being born beautiful or being able to be in the position to train their body for 12 hours a day?

Take your power back.

Follow pages of art, nature, love, kindness, charity, music, education, culture, poetry! Saturate your retinas with stunning images of everything beautiful in this world. Beauty isn’t perfectly drawn eyebrows and life isn’t about taking photos in exotic locations.

As a man, the most unattractive thing a girl can do on social media is to ‘like’ photos of hot women they don’t know.

Unfollow all the shallow creatures of this earth. Set an example for the little girls out there who’s childhood are cut short be the desire to fit in in the new world of public perception.

And if you don’t unfollow the foolishness, that’s fine too. But, you can never again complain about how there is unfair pressure on women to look pretty. You are putting that unfair pressure on yourself. Every day.

Maybe this rant is ignorance, or maybe I’m just tired of people choosing to feed their mind with unattainable desires that serve no purpose to their long term happiness.

Who do you follow?

PS: No, the story about the breastfeeding isn’t true, but you get the point.

Written by Randall Evans


Thanks for reading The Vile Mint. If I was able to spark your imagination, make you think or open your mind to new perspectives, please leave me a comment. I love hearing from readers and building relationships. God Bless.

Disjointed Desire


Law of nature,
And of time.
Mine is nothing,
In this life.

Vision in the season of depletion,
Incompletion’s my only foundation
Repletion of all but a reason.

Strife in man.
It’s here to stay;
I separate…

Revealed by desire
Of a simple smile
No barrier between self and liar.

How to discipline this mind?
To stop the cycle that I hide,
Solve the puzzle in my soul.
Hold my hand… Make me whole.

This is The Vile Mint
Written By Randall Evans


Rooms – Train Freewrite 

We live our lives in separate rooms.

When the first racing games were developed, it became evident that the car didn’t actually move, it was the track that was moving. Sometimes this is how I feel.

As I write this I’m sharing a room with a Vietnamese family. It’s probably the only room we’ll share in our life. Just now the little girl shoved her tiny hand across her father’s face to shut him up. Slapstick knows no language.

The room is powering down the tracks towards the lights of the big city. I’ll get off at Newtown and jump on a bus back home to Marrickville. I wonder if I’m writing like this because I’ve been reading ‘A moveable feast’. In any case, I don’t own a shotgun.

We form attachments to the people who occupy the same spaces as ourselves. I feel like a busy train is similar to a new seating arrangement in school. We are separate from our friends and the silence is evident. In a few weeks, however, we’ve made new friends and the seating arrangement must change.

Thousands of people have written on trains to try and pass the time and somehow contribute to the oversaturated use of the train as a metaphor for fate or choice, or even a concept as loose as ‘life’. The truth is that anything short of the Orient Express is a waste of time.

The family just jumped off at Cabramatta.

I wonder what the inside of their house looks like? I’d imagine that it’ll still be raining when the father opens the door for his family, his little girl running past him to grab the last thing she was playing. The warmth inside is the closest thing the room can do to say ‘I missed you’. The red curtains, soft carpet, and the dull hum of a fish tank filter are the signifiers of home. Yet, they are nothing special.

It’s association. The rooms we occupy only have significance when memories are forgotten about them. When we can’t quite remember all the stories about high-school, that’s where the nostalgia comes from.

It’s 9:55pm and a woman is getting restless. In a true bogan fashion, the man yelled , “Stop your fu#king bitching”. I know the space they occupy and it’s why they are here. It’s why they are on the move. The forgotten memories that have seeped into the walls push them out. Sadness… hurt… disappointed. It’s why they’d rather be outside than in.

It’s why we crave holidays.

My room is like a cave. It’s dark, damp and ancient. I had a strange feeling when I was eating breakfast of the time I have left. Picturing myself as an old man, but at the same single table… eating alone. It’s a terrifying image.

The happy couple are still fighting. Next stop is Grandville. I remember changing trains there countless times and purchasing chicken rolls. Three people got off. One lady is watching makeup tutorials on her phone. She has purple hair.

Your body is the train, your consciousness is the track. You are right here with me. Your consciousness determines where you go, which rooms you occupy. Your body merely follows your mind.

Not the Orient Express, but hey, I think this bogan behind me might murder his wife.

Written on the train by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

Tinder & the Death of Romance


We live in an age of superficial sexual pleasures. An age where we confuse consequence with cause. Instead of attraction being an organic combination, selection of a partner is now determined by one thing. Looks. The swirling pool of flesh bombards the retinas without any imagination required.

Dating is a violent sport. Instead of being an exciting adventure in a particular stage of life, it’s become a layer of irritating vexations, test driving multiple vehicles at once with no intention of a purchase. It’s normal to see multiple people at once, all at various stages of the initial dating phase, which is typically somewhere near, or past, home base.

Where do we go in this confusion? It’s no longer a matter of finding a diamond in the rough, because the true authentic romantics don’t play by the new rule book. They open doors for one person, buy roses for one person, experience anxiety over one person and dance with one person. And if it doesn’t work out, they cry over one person.

How can anybody feel loss with so many replacement parts on the market? They can’t feel loss, they only feel lost over time. Time after time, date after date, they wonder why they feel so down. It’s not meant to be like this.

It’s not normal to play the field.

It’s not normal to base your attraction on what a potential partner looks like in a photo.

It’s not normal to use romance as a tool rather than expression.

Actually, all these things are normal… But it’s not right.

The world is filling up with the tears of those who feel alone. They have been stripped of their worth as what love once was has been replicated and twisted into technique and fabrication. When lust reigns supreme, will we remember what love felt like? Where has she gone? Love is shivering in the cold corner of the woods.

Lead her into the light. Be gentle and fearful of such beauty.

Love is patient… Love is kind.

Are you?


Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint.

The Traveller’s Heart


It searches nights to find its rest
Will one welcome poorest guest?
It smells its own, but can’t get in,
Try in vein to see within.

A heart once beat incessantly
In organic love, romantically.
Yet, now it treads hesitantly,
Lost its way… Never free.

When she sang in truth and beauty
They stripped her innocence inside me.
It molded her, now slave to thee,
A hanging heart that cannot see.

The heart that travels inside me.
Knows no truth, love… beauty.

Written by Randall Evans

This is the Vile Mint.