Catalyst Colophon
Catalyst Issue 04 2024
Established in 1944 rmitcatalyst.com
Contact
catalyst@rmit.edu.au
RMIT Building 12, Level 3, Room 97
402 Swanston Street, Melbourne Victoria 3000 Australia
Min. Cover
Elyssa Chen
mess Cover
Frankie Tian
Inside Cover
Olivia Hough
Editors
Ishaan Ambavane
Louis Harrison
Soumil Sawmill
RUSU Publications & Communications
Shana Schultz
Design
Sisi Akarapichet
Elyssa Chen
Sophia Cuthbertson
Monique Pulivirenti
Megan Tran
Huiyu (Frankie) Tian
Minh Ngoc Trinh
Ishaan Ambavane
Soumil Sawmill
Photography
Arham Khan
Ishan Verma
Creative Writing
Mahal Cuya
Gaia Choo Yeok Boon
Maisie Mateos
Nithya Nagaraja
Lara Scuri
Farida Shams
Culture
Tansy Bradshaw
Eloise Dalais
Hannah Elizabeth Robbins
Entertainment
Luka D’Cruz
Olivia Hough
Yuvani Jayatillake
Elliot Mulder
News
Bridget Clarke
Elior Malka
Printer
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14 Hardner Road, Mount Waverley Victoria 3149 Australia
Catalyst acknowledges that our publication runs on the unceded lands of the Woiwurrung and Boonwurrung language groups of the Eastern Kulin Nations. We pay our respect to the Elders, past and present. We also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their Ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia where creative endeavours are nurtured.
Catalyst is a student-run publication of the RMIT Student Union (RUSU). The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the Editors, the Printers, or the Student Union.
C3 Contributors
THE C3 COLLABORATIVE COLLAGE SESSION
On the 28th of March, numerous creative RMIT students joined RMIT Creative and Catalyst to collaborate on a series of amazing collage pieces. From previous Catalyst issues, to found books, stickers and fashion magazines, students engaged in fun, chill and unserious play with papers, scissors and glue.
The collages you see throughout the magazine are birthed from the two hours of cutting and pasting, casual conversations, laughter and lots of book flipping, ideas scavenging, trial and error, and some spontaneous improvisation.
WHAT ON EARTH IS RMIT CREATIVE?
RMIT Creative is the creative hub of RMIT that develops and delivers student co-created artworks, activations and projects on campus and online.
OUR BEST MATE, CTRL+
Ctrl+ is a collective of creatives at RMIT. We specialise in Communication Design but are open to all students regardless of their majors and degrees. Every semester we host creative workshops, industry talks, social events, and more to help you broaden your creative horizon, befriend likeminded creatives, and receive valuable industry feedback for your portfolios!
Parting Notes
Sometimes you come into something not realising the positive impact it will have on your life. Like fields full of budding flowers waiting to grow, there is potential, growth, and immense fulfilment. Over the past couple of months, I’ve had the pleasure to work with two of the most grounded and amazing people in Ishaan and Soumil. The torch moves on to next year's editors, and I know they’ll do well. Vol 80 out, bring on 81!
Thanks so much!
Louis Harrison
With thanks,
And here we are again, at the close of another year—a year that seemed to move faster than September’s winds. As we part ways with this chapter of Catalyst, I'm filled with gratitude and pride for the journey we’ve traveled together.
We began with an exploration of Melbourne’s spirit: its scent, its sounds, and, most importantly, its vibrant art culture. Each issue was a step further, from the bold visual and literary experiments of The Improv Issue to the warm, layered themes of belonging in Nest. And now, we’ve arrived at this final issue, stretching and blurring the boundaries of contrasting ideas.
I owe immense thanks to my fellow editors, Soumil and Louis, and to our exceptional team of designers and writers who brought Catalyst to life. Working with you all has been a true privilege, and I eagerly look forward to seeing where the magazine’s next custodians take it.
Thank you to everyone who has been part of this scenic voyage.
With love and gratitude,
Ishaan Ambavane
TIME by Hannah Robbins
Time breathes life into me slowly.
Each day it feels like the last week has taken an entire year and I am reborn as a new person.
Though that never really happens. Those are my shoes and this is my bed. These are the sounds of my street, bicycles and babies and a rouge man with a speaker.
My bed socks are tucked in a special box underneath my desk.
Last week at about this exact time the world was born again.
I don’t know how it happened, it may have been knees. It may have been knees, it may have been dreams.
Something that could almost be gentle, Lingered in the air for a while, Soft words and blurry faces.
It had been sitting there for months, Slowly making itself known in small steps. Soft knees, subtle glances, A gentle graze of my back.
It felt like the start of spring.
And there we were, Whispering in corners, Feet knocking together, I closed my eyes for a second, And turned to watch you smile.
And then in one foul sweep, It was over.
Your teeth knocked mine, And the gentle thing was gone, Something else had taken its place.
Now when I think of your smile, Or the way you furrow your brow, I hear the sounds of my blinds creaking, And I feel more alone than ever.
An old friend told me to journal, as if it would figure something out for me.
I journal constantly, line after line about nothing and everything.
I started rewatching an old TV show. I remembered the times I’d watched it, laying on my stomach in the middle of summer.
this is it this is it this is it this is it this is it this is it is this it is this it is this it is this it
I was a smaller, less sensible and perhaps a bit smarter.
Life hadn’t happened to me as much as I thought it had. I’d get giddy reading and getting lost in the middle of some imaginary scenario. I’d listen to music and act out these scenarios with teddies or small plastic animals.
It feels like I’m calling out into the great unknown begging it to make sense to me. Art, literature, marketing, stickers, drugs, video games, those rainbow moulds with little bubbles in them. All seem to exist to numb me into thinking I have found that magic button and now I have it all worked out.
The TV I have in my house always freezes halfway through a good scene in a movie. You have to go into settings, disconnect from the internet, reconnect, and then pray that something will work out.
Then it does for a while. You might get another half an hour if you really really try, pretend that it isn’t an issue.
Sometimes I pick characters and fantasise about being them for a moment. I could go into their lives and do everything right the first time and not have to do it for a few more seasons.
Everything is scripted and I don’t have to worry about the way that anyone else feels.
Maybe I should just try write the script for once.
Clusterfuck
It takes time.
Elliot Mulder
still, the boy dances within shedding skin
shrinking blistering splitting and splitting and splitting
the storm roars on high its stench offset by his blood tucking into the water
salted and sweet and rusted and ripe
turn it to glass! and me as well! he wails saving its flitting grains within his shirt and inside his eyes
bloodshot weeping vignetted
he closes them sewn shut his husk loosens tears him from his head his heart he dives for them both fearless and happy and clueless and is stung by the storm but perfect now
sandcastle
Has there been a time in your life when you felt entirely like yourself? Where you didn’t hold anything back? Where you experienced things so particular to you that living beyond them was to live beyond a fundamental part of yourself?
Maybe it was that tight-knit group of friends you went on countless Macca’s runs with or the pup you had when you were twelve, who zoomed across the park on those afternoon walks. I have to believe we all have those external elements that make us us, and you’d be in that place in time, and for a fleeting moment, this spinning top just felt right. Over twenty-oneish years, that’s what my Nan’s house became to me.
From the moment my shoes hit the asphalt, whether I was five or twelve or nineteen, I had stepped into a land frozen in time. I’d saunter up the driveway, where sat an unevenly set pair of pale green gates, whose bottoms would screech along the ground if you shifted them too far. But without fail, even if I simply walked past the house, resting his little furry white head in a slot at the right side of this gate was Mac, my Nan’s Westie; as soon as he’d see a friendly face, he’d bolt alllllll the way to the front door and eagerly await us behind the blurred yellow glass, his tail wagging like it’s about to come loose. I’d ring the brass bell hanging by the window, creak open the security door whose song never ever changed and say hi.
It wasn’t an amazingly well-lit house; when it wasn’t the brightest summer day, it almost seemed to be resting under an overcast sky. Besides the latte-coloured carpet across the lounge and dining area, it looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the 1980s; white patterned wallpaper, marble tiles everywhere and these grey couches with some damn ugly floral patterns that were kinda just perfect anyway. The whole place smelled of the flowers my Nan put in her glass vase that week, except my grandad’s office, thick with a minty aroma even years after he passed. But it always felt so quiet. Not uncomfortably quiet, but the peaceful kind that would have you sleeping for days. And best of all was the tub of cookies in the pantry, the most debilitating source of joy but joyous all the same.
That was my first favourite thing about going to my Nan’s, and then it became the drumkit we put in my grandad’s weary, cluttered shed. For years to come, I’d sit on my stool, and blast music into my ears for hours while I basted in sweat and felt my palms swell with callouses. With every thrash, crack and thoom, all the feelings I’d let swell up became easy to recognise and even easier to release. It was a flow state unlike any, and it still is.
Next, my Nan asked if I’d like to stay for dinner, and with it came hours upon hours of relentless chatter about every topic under the
sun. Whether the world lifted me up or tore me to pieces, I could spill my guts and she was there for each word. On those nights, she’d be a guiding light, such a full heart, with a new lesson in kindness every single time.
With these came a soothing rhythm; between school and a loud house, there was somewhere I always wanted to be. But in time, the cymbals of my drums split, Mac’s time with us fell short, and my Nan moved to respite. And then came the pandemic. Between isolating, and studying in peace, I spent many months there alone only to learn that all isolation and no interaction is a surefire way to go mad. But it also meant that I got to simply exist there; to have that space and unapologetically embrace myself within it. I got to be myself without a panic for the first time, and within that, I truly felt free.
And at the end of it all, that castle crumbled back into earth last month. Only the sand remains as I am swept out into the raging sea. But in time, another soul will use it for another castle, and maybe it’ll just as monumentally launch them beyond these shores. I hope they see their home with closed eyes as it returns to the sand, as I’ll try to see mine for the rest of my days.
Homecoming
We saw her at the start of the start of 2024. I hugged her when we arrived. She felt like home. I sat in the cramped living room and watched her billowy arms and wrinkled brown face light up when someone made a joke. She makes food for me: pork bola bola misou soup. It’s hearty with noodles, onions and meatballs. She watches me take a bite. I smile. I haven’t had it in years.
sandcastle Elliot Mulder
Gaia Choo Yeok Boon
Nature
It is 2012, pop music icon Lady Gaga’s hit song Born This Way echoes through every popular radio station and night club. The 2010’s, a phenomenal decade for LGBT rights, with over eighteen nations legalising same-sex marriage and social campaigns to eliminate homophobia and transphobia gaining monumental traction, all spearheaded by this one notion; I was born this way. That queerness is an innate aspect of one's existence, that its unchanging nature is the crux of why it should be accepted.
A bisexual is born not made, in the way her hair is black, and eyes are brown. When my mother held me for the first time, I came out with a splash of colour against the blank white walls of the operating theatre. It was true, I knew I liked girls from the moment I could talk and never thought to deny myself the epithet of bisexuality. I dated a lot of boys and a couple of girls. I had sex with a lot of boys, and one or two girls. Stuck in a perpetual cycle of questioning whether the label ascribed to me was congruent with my nature - as I flip-flopped between “preference percentages” - constantly introspecting trying to discover the identity I was born with.
Knowing we were created this way brings comfort to both those who are queer and those who are not. It is clean and it is simple to know we are assigned our pathway of sexuality and gender. Its rigidity sits on our shoulders and reminds us we are secure in our identities, whether they may be discovered or not. The simplicity of the Born This Way idea allows the straight and cisgender to understand our love as equal, that the unchanging and immovable nature of our love validates its existence. For everyone else leaves the womb knowing they align with normativity – we are no different, so we shan't diverge. I have always known that I am bisexual. From the moment my head hit my mother's chest I greeted the morning sun as bisexual and sang along to the lyrics of Born This Way as the knowledge of it became clearer in my consciousness. It is reminiscent of the Queer renaissance of the 2010s – it is fundamentally Queer to celebrate what makes us different. To take pride in our nature.
It is 2024 and I am a lesbian. Completely out of the blue, though I have loved men in my lifetime, I truly did love them too. A whole lifetime of slowly growing into oneself through every tumultuous amour, questioning “perhaps my bisexuality was taught to me”. A lesbian was made not born, in the way she colours her hair pink in spite of the black that lays underneath. She is a splash of colour against the plain white backboard of rigid labels and “gold star” standards that say she was Born This Way. There shall be nothing simple about my expression – for as long as I live, I am damned to an ever-changing idea of “self” so perhaps it is easier to let myself ride that wave no matter the form it may take. For tomorrow, I may wake up a man. Nurture the chaos of queerness and it shall guide you safely down its turbulent course.
Written by Yuvani Jayatillake
Unless you’re geriatric, it’s likely you’re familiar with Charli xcx’s sixth studio album BRAT in all of its oots-oots, bright green glory. Released in early July, its rave-inspired sound set the tone for the Northern Hemisphere’s summer season, and perhaps more appropriately, Melbourne’s winter. As someone who doesn’t rave, nor club regularly, it could not have been more difficult to avoid this album or any of the singles xcx, released leading up to the album. But, BRAT’s sound is so much more sincere and nuanced than people gave it credit for. Since its release however, Brat Summer, and its distinction in the music landscape over the past few months has allowed for every track to have its moment. With insane production from start to finish, each track is a unique soundscape explored under 3 and a half minutes.
She opens with the ever-tasteful, and relatively tame track ‘360’. A song of friendship and reflection on being the music IT girl for years yet simultaneously, being unrecognised by established accolades. The opening synth is kitschy and a certified ear worm that she self-references in the closing track ‘365’.
Following ‘360’ is the oots-oots track we were yearning for in ‘club classics’. It is a truly unique listening experience, undergoing a metamorphosis within the first lines of lyrics. Leaning on the stereotypical lyrics heard in the early 2000s club hits, she innovates alongside A.G Cook and George Daniel, producing synths and basslines that could not have existed 10 years ago. She describes the track as an audible experience reflecting the average club experience, equating the wonky bass from the second verse to be the sounds of the club hitting the corridor walls before entering the room, and maybe even wonkilywalking to the bathroom after a few drinks. It sets the tones for other heavy hitter tracks including ‘b2b’, ‘everything is romantic’, and off the deluxe album Brat and it’s the same but there’s three more songs so it isn’t, ‘guess’.
Interwoven with the oots-oots tracks Charli sprinkles in tracks reflecting on existentialism, family and generational trauma, her career and loved ones she still mourns. Lyrically, the songs are all simple, having the cadence and simplicity of a text exchange between close friends. They are thevbreather tracks in the album for sure, but the music she sings over is still very much in tune with the synth sound she starts and ends the album with.
Production on this album goes without saying - but its hold on the vibe of the summer (rolling seamlessly into our Aussie summer, no doubt) is a phenomenon worthy of an entire chapter in pop culture history books of the 21st century.
It feels like ‘Brat’ is the landmark built on the foundation of last year’s music. 2023 saw the rise of queer artists topping charts and being the ripple that culminated into the wave of hyper-pop, and party anthems reminiscent of 2000s club classics - an idea that’s recurring throughout her entire discography.
Stringing from its success, the diva herself, claimed the summer as she started her tour with honorary Melbournian, Troye Sivan on their European SWEAT tour. It was a massive deal; with the bright green of the album cover popping up across international cities on billboards and being sites of pilgrimage for the pop-cultured. Unlike most album releases, Brat’s hype extended well after its release, with the release of b2b, Von Dutch and the Von Dutch remix ft. Addison Rae as singles. It was destined for virality.
The heightened modernised synth sound of 2010s club hits, has unfortunately changed the dynamic associated with clubbing, to be less about dancing and more about hook-up culture. Charli’s BRAT and the deluxe version including ‘Guess’, ‘Hello, Goodbye’ and ‘Springbreakers’ breaks these monotonous sounds and embraces the messiness of party-girls, marking the end of the ‘clean-girl’ aesthetic that has been lasting the past couple years.
Part of what made it a phenomenon was of how self aware it was - it doesn’t take itself seriously enough to be ballads with synths involved, and it even criticises the over-commercialisation of music projects with re-releases or alternate versions of songs for the sake of ‘commercial success’ (with the title of her deluxe album being ‘Brat and it’s the same but it’s three more songs so it isn’t’. Which rings even clearer when we find out a certain mega-superstar had intentionally released acoustic versions of her album for UK fans only when Brat was on track to being number one on those charts.
The symptoms of late-stage-capitalism are very intricately associated with the nature of BRAT and the Brat mindset and have contributed to the Kamala is Brat Presidential campaign for the 2025 US election. This is just one of many examples (but never so on-the-nose) where companies who are directly funding or donating or supporting Kamala Harris are exploiting the trends on the internet to cater towards the very demographic that understand the internet lingo. Our own federal elections are exhibit A when it comes to showing the influence that younger voters can have on who can take out an election, with more Greens and independents occupying seats in Parliament. And what could be more perfect than an artistic piece of expressionism, that’s introspective, acutely self-aware and genuine, that resonates with young voters - especially when your predecessor for a candidate was criticised for his old age? It unfortunately has shot itself in the foot, now becoming the evidence of unseriousness in a political campaign (which is very valid) but also so very contrived it completely goes against the Brat philosophy.
Brat’s presence is inescapable and will be so much more than an album, it has officially become a driving factor in pop-culture, successfully infiltrating international politics.
That's so Julia.
ECSTASY OF SHOPPPING - BEING A SHOPAHOLIC
Looking for clothes; so pretty, so delightful, so enchanting – like a moth to a flame. A way to fill my time, when tired after a long day, on the tram on my work break. Browsing and browsing and browsing.
It’s an addiction, one I can’t afford – being a shopaholic. Rivalling the rush of the wildest highs, greeted with the sea of possibilities, it isn’t just buying a pair of jeans because you need a new pair, it’s the euphoria of snagging a sale, a fit so good it rivals your relationship, making your heart race like a dog to a treat. Shopping infuses me with exhilaration akin to the profound satisfaction of fishing for a man. I yearn for the beauty and assimilation acquired by simply putting on that glove that fits.
Unfortunately, it extends to being far more than a social branding you put on yourself – being a shopaholic – it intertwines with identity, emotional well-being, social status and painting the modern consumer culture. Being a shopaholic is a behavioural addiction, one that has not taken me yet. It comes with the desire to fulfil a space within, the sense of accomplishment – the dopamine hits and suddenly, everything is a little brighter.
talk.” You open your closet and suddenly find half your closet with the nagging, sobering
Stemming from the nature of desire and materialism, buying something, offers you that satisfaction, where you have earned it. The sense of accomplishment and feeling
But further rooted is the feel-good of clothing, it can be second-hand, it can be gifted, it can be my sisters. Wearing something I haven’t worn before, I feel marvellous, the joy of trying on different clothes, is a thrill. Perhaps it is the nostalgia of playing dressups, where I am back in my mother’s closet finding her suede wedges or perhaps it is the embodiment of a different character. But it is for certain the felicity of expressing oneself – a joie
Showing who you are to the world is not daunting, and clothing offers an invitation to the ravishing society of creativity and emotions without words or expressions of who you are.
Like any great addiction, it comes with its highs and lows, the thrill of the chase propelling you forward only to feel the lows when that credit card statement arrives with less “congratulations” and more “we need to
Savour the rush of the purchase and master the art of indulgence letting each moment of your shopping be a mindful dance with desire and want.
But I have a confession: I loathe shopping. In store that is.
Essentials v/s Obsessions Eloise Dalais
I’m mindful when I shop, I don’t buy everything I see in sight.
The fashion industry is God-awful number 2 pollutant in the world and yet Shein is opening a head office in Australia, I didn’t think that the demand would increase. Especially among an educated society on climate change and consumerism, somehow we can’t get enough of buying and disposing and repeating. Of course, our need and greed for more consumes our society, the newest, the brightest and the coolest must be in sight.
With a constant influx of trends, which I am severely guilty in promoting, the allure of cheap clothing has you buckling at the knees to be in the latest trends. Fast fashion thrives on the constantly consuming consumer who doesn’t need to break the bank with quick production cycles and new trends. The issue that comes with fast fashion is that these are worn a few times then discarded to landfill or incinerated adding to the pollution that we already currently sit on. Not to mention that most of the time the clothing is made unethically, with low-wage labour, and high concerns for worker exploitation, forcing children and adults to work 18-hour days for a tenth of the price of the t-shirt you just bought for $5.
Social media tends to be the guilty culprit of this demanding society for newness. There is however a difference when looking into buying essentials versus finding the
difference of obsession and whether you really need that.
In recent times, money is tight, and with the current recession, it is difficult to shop sustainably and purchase timeless pieces. Sone though seem to think that doing 50 piece hauls of tops and dresses on the weekly doesn’t damage the environment.
I have things from Zara, they do great jeans, I am no saint either. But there is a difference with the intention of buying – to wear a couple of times and then dispose of or to wear and think about wearing them forever.
The challenge is striking the balance of looking longer term to pieces you will wear for years that offer versatility and longevity. Trust me I am not telling you to just live in plain boring clothing like a white t-shirt and black pants. Fast fashion is fast fashion, but there are better brands than Shein and Temu on the scale of things, whereas Zara and H&M do have ‘better’ practices instilled within their business. Whereas ‘Shemu’ do not hide behind their brand, they shout to you ‘SPIN THIS WHEEL FOR FREE CLOTHES AND MONEY’ and who doesn’t want free money? And who suffers here?
It is a journey of understanding the true value of clothing and thinking about cost per wear when you buy an investment piece.
I encourage you to consider your purchasing power next time you’re shopping for the next trend.
The Man
Nithya Nagaraja
I cannot breathe.
I wear an armour forged and tempered by silence. It plays a shield for my soul but filter for the world.
I was told to be strong for every tear unshed, will tunnel my vision towards the roles I was expected to play.
I was taught to protect and provide, the pace would not be my own I had my own map of the field but it would always be tainted there would need to be more stops than intended, For my father, my mother, my partner, My child, my friends.
The responsibility has felt heavy but I remember who waits for me I was taught to endure the daily burdens because I feel stronger pulling my weight.
I walk into spaces knowing my duty
Sometimes for me but other times for many I work hard, I make myself heard I must scream and pummel away I remember where I must go on days that I tire I must toil and build, protect this space, inhabit all that I bear witness For I have no choice, sometimes this seems the way I can let my people breathe.
Tomorrow will be for me, tomorrow I will get time Until then I cannot breathe because I cannot stop running.
- With input from Sreedeep S S
THE WOMAN
So I must move forward
I must not be discouraged
I must sail through the questions of my incompetence I must behave.
I cannot see.
Periwinkle braids sliced, strays kissing my eyes trying to be content in the hot cell of my mind while my mind runs wild in the passion of the winds, leveling above blades of grass nobody to translate me or tame my presence.
The unspoken rules tie me so I must, continue to palliate my fury, my sadness, my insecurity
Any weakness and we may leap back and that is unforgivable.
I am but a ghost of our many pasts
Although my work could be but a seed.
My body unburdens as I walk outside work, I can unclothe the many masks and relax without the makeup of false emotion I am back in my bed, dreaming about the fields periwinkle flowers in my loose braids again, The sun is unbiased in its golden warmth and the wind carries my voice again.
I can see above the grass blades
The low gaze I have practiced I wait my turn to speak I shudder for the fear of my opinion but the ember in my cheeks burning say otherwise - when they speak over me. I have memorized the creases in their cheeks, the crack in their voices when they hesitate, how to temper the tension in the room, their vapid dispositions in the important decisions, the somber misgivings that may or may not be, I cannot say for I have never been allowed to understand.
I take down notes I study the figures on the board open my mouth but my voice is swallowed by the indifference in the room. The invisible walls stifle me and they deny their existence but I, can feel the hollow ache of being unheard.
A horizon where wildflowers bloom in defiance and shadows dance gently without aiming to silence. I breathe in this scent of pine and earth
And I exhale the load of today.
I am safe in my memory until I cannot see over those shoulders again.
I know I carry the weight of suffrage and every right that was won for. My voice is not mine alone, it is strained by ancestry. We were separated by blood but our struggles united us. The echoes ring in my ears, silent cries in chances denied, every bellow that moved the needle to dawn for us. Their courage was a flame that flickered but never died, I carry this legacy in my veins, the stories are fresh of women who were told they were too bold, too loud, too wordy, too much. This is the heirloom I have inherited, nothing else just the impressions of this past. The whispers remind me that I am but a thread in this vast drapery.
Nithya Nagaraja
Summer or Winter byFarida Shams
The smell of the sand and the salt in the air. The sun shining, highlighting faces wet with water. Thighs sticking to leather car seats, curly hair soaking through shirts. Walks along the beach, toes sinking through sand, tote bags slipping off our shoulders, glasses foggy from the heat. The ice cream we hold dripping on our hands, creating puddles on the ground. Drip, drip, drip…
The days are longer and the nights are shorter. School is out, road trips start, family barbecues on the weekends.
The leaves start changing colour, yellow and orange. They fall on the ground, crunching as we walk over them, the sounds echoing on the bare brown trees. The air gets frostier.
The smell of petrichor on the grass. Chilled air against cheeks, prickling. We bundle with scarves that shield our red noses, clothes covering red tipped fingers, curly hair frizzy from the wind. Walks along rain-soaked footpaths, leather bags slipping off bulky coat covered shoulders, glasses moist from the rain. The gelato we hold freezing our hands, trying to prevent it from dripping on our hands. Drop, drop, drop…
The nights are longer and the days are shorter. School starts again, we miss the road trips, weekends spent huddled next to a fire, mugs of hot chocolate warming our hands.
You ask someone which one they prefer, some say summer because they have no obligations, just them and the beach. Others say winter because they can’t bear the heat, preferring to be cold than hot, the idea of bundling up in coats and scarves and blankets being much more appealing than having to take layers of clothes off to stay cool.
We wish for summer when it becomes too cold, and we wish for winter when we can’t handle the heat any longer. But, they will always come back around.
Feminine/Horror
It has been two years now—I never really think about her. Not purposefully, just passively. I catch glimpses of her in foggy bathroom mirrors. I think about her when we catch up over cups of coffee. We walk, fall back into our rhythm and I watch your eyes glaze over. Even if it is just for a second, I know you’re searching for her, like you always do. I tell myself you can't help it, she’s your obsession. A fantasy you conjure and indulge in, hoping all this will materialise her right in front of you.
She is smart but not too smart. Dumb enough so you can giggle at her when she doesn't understand the depth of the movie you are watching. Dumb enough so you can tell her all the tiny details of the film—the motifs, the symbolism, all of it that goes over her head. She’s pretty in an effortless way. Auburn locks carelessly draped across thin shoulder blades. It frames her face so you can push pieces behind her ears when she is shy and staring at your shoes. She is sexual, but not a slut. Only sexual with you and in the ways you see fit. Submissive but not oppressed, you're a modern man, after all. Perfect. An ingenue drenched in your adulation.
I fitted her well, for a while. Though her skin hung awkwardly off my bones like an older sister’s hand-me-downs. I wore her well enough so you could live with the hope that one day, I would replace her in your mind. No
longer a foolish daydream, but your wife. The mother of your children.
Yet, she still adorns my walls so, how am i different from you? I leer at her ribcage, wondering if I could still twist myself or carve my bone marrow to look like her again. I lay in bed at night, leering at her ribcage only to tear the posters from the flakey paint. I have already purged from my body. I know she’s gone. I know she was never me. Just a projection placed onto me. Pushed onto every girl who is told her life's purpose is to be with a boy like you.
And I know somewhere buried deep in the inner apertures of your brain, you know she wasn’t real too. That she was never me. I feel it as we hug goodbye and you no longer look back as you walk to the bus stop. Even when you held me, you knew I wasn’t her. Even together, I only heard your admiration in the darkness. Whispered against sweat slicked skin– I still wonder if those words were true, or the echo of an apparition.
But that voice still rings. It haunts me even now. To know I was beautiful as her, not so lovely without her. Even as I reached for the scissors two years ago. I hear pleas. From you, from them. From articles in those shitty magazines. They all begged me not to kill her.
IT WAS ALWAYS THERE, LINGERING. NUZZLED SOMEWHERE IN MY MIND. BUT IT GREW.
NO LONGER QUIET. IT WAS A PERSISTANT RINGING
NO LONGER SOMETHING COULD SEVERE LIKE A DISEASED LIMB. IT SWALLOWED ME WHOLE
I STARED AT MY TRAITOROUS BODY WATCHING THE FLESH HAD CURDLE. BUT IN ITS MONSTROSITY, I HAD SOMEHOW SHEDDED ALL THE DARKNESS I HABOURED. ALL THESE YEARS OF UNCERTAINTY. OF WET CHEEKS
BEGGING THE EMPTY SKY TO LOOK LIKE SOMEONE YOU WANTED.
mess