Faceless

Conversations created in zeros and ones,

Something’s lost.

Something’s wrong.

No subconscious signals,

No mirror neurons,

Just respond.

Respond.

I threw a stone at a man that struck him

In the eye.

As much as he tried to hide it, inside myself

I cried.

Sparked in a single moment’s transaction,

A frozen moment of reaction.

She is born from the pain of universal truth.

I wake in sweats remembering,

The stain of guilt that sticks to me.

Respond.

Arrested by anonymity,

Is the growth of…

I threw a stone in the dark.

I didn’t hear it fall.

As much as I tried to hear,

I don’t think it hit the floor.

Face-to-face is now replaced,

New life…

Naked in the wood.

And as trees fall in a digital wood,

They know not what they could.

Respond.

Mind Control

Beware the path of instant dread,

That easy stream inside your head.

Red herrings swoop and plague your brain,

“What could be? Is it me?

Conclusions falling cold as rain.

.

Infant thoughts so soft and small,

While waiting longer for a call.

Clawing, scratching, desperate plea.

“What to do? Not a clue!”

Don’t follow your anxiety.

.

Quenching thoughts of self destruction,

Will your way to their disruption.

Avoid the fall into the view,

“It’s all done! I’m no one!”

And choose to think anew.

.

All you do is all you can,

Your mind’s direction needs a plan,

To stop the worry based on myth.

“I was true. Tomorrow’s new.”

Control the voices you live with.

.

Written by Randall Evans

The Broken Are The Kind

The broken are the kind
Who feel the pain in life
They try to pull your strife
Inside they feel the knife

The broken are the wise
Who wear a smart disguise
They make your spirit rise
Inside they shrink in size

The broken are the warm
Who feel the constant storm
They hold you ‘til the dawn
Inside their self is worn

The broken are the bright
Who make the crisis light
They joke to end the night
Inside their head’s in flight.

The broken are the kind
Who make you feel at ease
But if you swam their sea
You’d call the broken “Me”.

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

Giving Blood

I would slit my wrists to give you meaning. I bleed my unformed thoughts to show you truth. Yet, is it helping anyone, or am I as superficial as the next ‘blogger’, posting a premature idea to be an early entry on the daily prompt ?

I was contemplating a creative way to communicate the depth of real relationships compared to surface level, superficial ones. That’s when, in my half conscious state, I made the decision to give blood.


I want to give. I want others to take from me. Get a knife a slice away what you need. I’m a busted pipe, a deflating tire, an empty shell. My selflessness rides on the ironical coattails of ego.


I’m too tired and worn to give any more words. I’ll give blood. My ramblings into the void bear little fruit, but the blood in my veins is a fountain for those I’ve never met.


Superficial


Guest

I hate it when guests linger around. They can’t take a hint. Normally, I’d stand up slowly and take our coffee mugs to the sink, or I’d stretch out my arms and say, “Well, it was so good seeing you!” But, this time I can’t. My guest is still here.

My guest keeps saying the same thing, but I can’t here it’s voice. It whispers, “Remember.” My uninvited guest is the byproduct my life circumstances that I, clearly, couldn’t handle the way my brain wanted me to.

My logical mind talked calmly to me (‘me’ being somewhere other than in the physical realm). He told me it was going to be fine. “These things happen”, “It’ll all make sense one day” and “You just have to get on with it”, all sound like terrific little phrases to repeat. Yet, my guest remains inside ‘me’.

Remember.

I purge my room. Everything that reminds me is stored away, but it’s voice grows louder still.

Remember.

I clean my entire house and delete every photo from my phone.

Remember!

I break. My guest forces my hand. It kicks my legs out from under me and I fall to my hands and knees. Tears burst out to the sound of a broken cry. How warm they are leaking through eyes clenched shut.

Hollow and alone, my guest finally leaves. I finally feel relief! They are gone!

Feeling better, I take a bath. It’s just what I needed. There is nothing more relaxing than drinking the cold tap water while lying in a boiling hot bath. As the water drains I wipe the fog from the mirror. A small smile curves. It’s been a long time since I felt the muscles around my mouth go through so much work.

As I walk downstairs to get a glass of water, I feel something in the corner of my being whisper. Now I know.

I know this guest will never leave.

– By Randall Evans.

Guest