Brooke Forbes

I’m trying to trace the continuity of my adventures within my lifespan.

Where does love start and end?

Where does the darkness seep inwards, and collapse like the last soft breath of a failing lung?

What of hope, then? What of happiness?

Where can I align the journey and map it out with precision and confidence?

A straight line from X to Z. No transgressions, no meandering wanders.

I see you, trying to live this life. Like it’s the only thing that keeps glue to paper. Togetherness is not so abstract in your domain.

I see you, trying to take one step after another – but also build something worthwhile of worldly display.

I see you, trying to obtain meaning in all the tiny places; the strained tea leaves, the melting sunsets, and sprawling views from local lookout spots.

I see you, lost in it all.

But yet, here we are. Spinning. Afloat in the chaos and where meaning-makers are mocked and governance makes little sense to anyone, anymore.

We’re free-falling through this life of absent oblivion, you and I, stranded in a saltwater creek running from mountain to ocean, rain softly building to crescendo.

We’re stranded too – on a slowly rusting shipwreck. Salt-crusted waves lapping and an absence of fresh water leaving our mouths open and dry.

And we’re stranded too in the desert. Near a water hole full of reddish dirt and dusty residue. You can’t drink up life here, either.

All our thirsts for meaning are lost amongst a mountainous backdrop, too. There’s a sign, but you can’t read Arrernte, just yet.