In the end we said it might be nothing, this fretting about
our dented souls, the bath we always fill to just below
eye level, that the rain falls openly and we struggle to keep
our balance, that we call ourselves insignificant, the stumbling
over our own feet, no, it is nothing. Or that we are so unfathomable
in our summertime peaks, that we sometimes dream of lying beneath
livestock until our breath has been taken away, that we flee memories like a
horse that has bolted, before feeding it sugar cubes again and
so sweet, so sweet, no, it is nothing. That we rake up the leaves
and carry away the autumn in bin bags, that we still want to say so
much before we turn off the light and dig into the night, that sometimes
we curse ourselves and think the party’s over, yes, the party’s over, that
the long present frightens us and so much time to be old, no, it is nothing.
Or that we are constantly prepping for life like for an exam, that we turn
up the central heating against all those ice-cold trains of thought,
that we forget to ask someone about their illness because we rarely
assume health, no, it is nothing. That we scrape the garden, the moss
from the tiles, that we are the moss that grows in places where
it should not grow, that we sing a song and it makes us feel sad,
that we sing songs in order to feel sad, we sing la-la-la and the tears
on our cheeks, no, it is nothing. Or that we sometimes start an argument,
that we dash the paint from someone’s existence, that sometimes everything
is so pointless and the curtains shut, that we despair of other people’s light,
we empty the bath, rub the moisture from our eyes, no, it is nothing, it is nothing.
Translation by Michele Hutchison
Credit: Curtis Parratt
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This article appears in the 08 Dec 2020 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas special