chironmurphy

[chironmurphy]

Suburbia held my eyes open when many of my friends drifted to sleep. The town I live in is rough. Simple as that. As a little kid you know it, but it doesn’t matter. Me and my friends would chase the evening through the fields, and rest on a memorial bench in the nearest park. We’d wrestle, hide, race, and discuss what was at the time, the most important things we could think of. Alien feelings had landed on our lawns, and we only had each other to make sense of them. School didn’t matter, crime around us didn’t matter, money didn’t matter. Significance merely dwelled in the colour of the sky. Once past purple our parents begin to worry. Each one of us breathed the clean air of trees we called home, and exhaled the slightest piece of innocence, as we were getting older.

When it came time to send me to high school, my parents didn’t pick the local. They trusted their gut. They lifted me from terraced disputes to gated solace. I went to high school in a richer area. Suburbia. Like it is in the movies. Company cars, 5 bedrooms, the athletic son and the cheerleader daughter, straight A’s, soft drugs and young love. That’s where my formation took place. I woke up on another planet. I’d come home and see my friends, and notice we were drifting. Guilt only pushed my raft further, onto the shore of kids who knew nothing of my roots. I remember being scared walking around my hometown for a period of time. The most prominent thought on my mind was who’s behind me? I remember walking to my friend’s house in suburbia, music in my ears, jacket on my shoulder. I thought of all sorts of things.

[chironmurphy]

There’s a storm brewing on your tongue. It’ll shake the world. Tear the clouds down. Rip the skyscrapers aside. Too long, you’ve laid down. You’ve laid still, and let things be. Following schedules, keeping quiet at the table. There’s a blueprint for suburban kids like you. Smart kids, like to party but don’t take it too far. Boyfriend who plays football. College, maybe law or something a little more left field: English, fine art; possibly. You’ve had your eyes shut, holding the hands of those beside you. They’re holding the hands of whoever’s next to them. Everyone being led by the ones who came before. Today though, you’ve floated too far. Today your legs start kicking, your arms start flailing. You’re swimming. Each of your peers attempt to rag your legs backwards, as they lash anchors of questions. Why change? Why be different? Why not spend another year speeding country lanes, only to end up parked outside McDonald’s? The truth is, whoever is driving wants to stray off into the forest. Whoever isn’t changing, will keep their eyes tightly shut, and clasp their ears as to not know of what’s happening outside. You’ve seen many sunsets in this town, on that hill. Now the sun sets on it all. It’s time for blooming. It’s time to weather the storm that is dancing on your tongue, and to direct the lighting on your teeth. Tell him he’s a cunt. Tell her she hasn’t changed in years. Tell them they ought to stay quiet. Show your parents the adjustments, the changes you’ve made to this blueprint. Weather your storm and relish in it.

[chironmurphy]

Drumming rain. Hit after hit. No exhaustion. Rapidly aggressive. My heart beats faster though. I can’t see ahead of me. The night has coated the streets with its cloak of confusion, while the clouds work hard to throw me off even more. I intended to go overboard in liquid escape, but now it seems I can’t swim. Now I’m regretting. Now I’m repeating “shit”, “fuck”, “never again”, “I need to stop”. My blood is in a race with its dizzying counterpart, who courses my veins with enough confidence to take over. I can’t see straight. I’m terrified. I’m shivering. My breath teases at my short comings. It briefly flaunts the concoctions I’ve indulged in, right before disappearing into a place of comfort. Here I am, left to my own devices. Stumbling through spotlights, paranoia soaked into my shirt. Eyes watering and teeth chattering, I’m the only one on the street. Upon shifting into the road, I lay down. That’s it. Given up. There are miles to go and the state I’m in leaves immediate rest lingering on my mind. As pathetic as it seems, I struggle in knowing I’m going to do it again tomorrow.

[chironmurphy]

I bet if all the fish in the aquarium tried, they could make their way through that glass and kill us all. Allow their quarters to come collapsing down on us. Transparent corridors filled with life, roaming a set. A stage filled with props, looking to emulate the trueness of their world. Eyes beam in every direction. I come close to one of them. I see an equal. We both share the same energy. We both live. We both hold the innate desire to continue to do so. We both live in a world, in which we do not understand. We both watch our respective worlds slowly die, at the hands of forces we can’t hope to defeat. I do not see a mindless, directionless vertebrate. Equals. Citizens of nature. Birthed of the same powers. Myself and Pisces make ample progress through the winding corridor. His gills work as my lungs do. His eyes work as my eyes do. We are life. The same matter that has fashioned us in such differing forms, also separates us. The glass. The water. The molecules. We are all one. In this interlude, myself and this fish lead such contrasting lives, yet when my mind is liberated of this physical form, I hope to meet him again, as we resume real life.

[chironmurphy]

Light off. Window open. The forest next door offers its hand. Leaves on the branches of archaic bodies murmur amongst the wind’s howl. Towels set down. They await my embrace later on. I’m unraveled. Unwrapped. Vulnerable, and susceptible to the night’s atmosphere. My ever so faint reflection desperately grasps for my audience as I move past the mirror, and take one step up. One step, onto the ivory stage. Door closed, the tiles share my image. This makeshift cloud covers me in a freezing pour of my own doing. Each drop trickling through the leading lines of my body. Soaking in the stone. Celestials above beg and plea to see what they are tormented with upon the glass pane that mirrors me. I’m indifferent though. The synthetic storm provides a white noise. A depriving of the senses amongst a flurry of sensations. I’m protected.

I can be proud here man. I can take away everything I’ve gathered. In the shower, I wash my makeup away. I’ve set the scene, and given what’s needed. Now while the water runs around on me, my thoughts are free. It’s here where I write and perform my scripts. My fantasies. An alternate reality is performed behind the bathroom door here. Cold showers in the night remove the phony. They remove the expectations. Reflections on ambition, friendships, love, mistakes, and my being, are invited in this 2 by 2 chamber. Nothing but noise. The cold doesn’t really fuck with me anymore. It loses its presence once my head gets going. Alls I need is a mane of eucalyptus.

[chironmurphy]

3:20pm. Most parents are waiting outside, some wave through the window. November’s letting the day rest early. Specs of dust are gathering in the sky. Once the rest of my class has been picked up, our teacher walks me and 2 others over to the after school club. Pizza, noodles, orange juice. Jungle Storm, San Andreas and Tekken. The teachers were clueless. I was mindless. I’d illustrate realms to fight this battle of boredom. Come 6pm, I’m the last one to leave. The arm of the couch is nothing to me. Immediately after getting through the door: Halo Reach, curly fries, Adventure Time. Such bliss is alien to me now. I spent those days with my mind submerged in the pool of freedom. Nothing mattered. Hours spent bitter, as I’d hear the older kids outside, wondering when my freedom would look like theirs.

12:00am. November stole the day’s ambition. I’m walking home from work. 8 hours of preparing addictive concoctions, for blind, convenient consumption. It’s raining, and freezing, but somehow I’m still sweating, and falling asleep. The odd car will shoot past. Wonder where they’re going. Who they’re seeing. What does this journey mean to them? I’ll be awake for college in 6 hours, my minutes of escape are slipping away. I no longer look towards anyone older than me with envy. The present is more important. Instead now, I look back at that naïve memory of myself, trying to regain any sense of what he had. To replicate his outlook. His simplicity. All I look forward to becoming, is myself when it’s all worked out. When everything I’m trying to be, is. Right now though, I have to get there. I have to absorb it all. Aging doesn’t frighten me. I just want to make the most of each second.

[chironmurphy]

I think this point in my life needs to be about listening. Watching. Feeling. If my goal is to live through my art then I need to access a new lens. Rummage through perspective. Noticing and noting are such valuable things right now. To glimpse at earth’s skin, lie in it and watch blank blues and whites form a masterpiece, all while feeling everything I can. I want to build a story from everyone I pass. I want to let the vast length of a stream become the pathway to nirvana, to a better place. Time has seemed as though he’s been shooting away from me these last two years. Now he glides. I’ve befriended him. If each day I can feel raw, unfiltered sensations, and let them inspire me, then those are days well spent. Look beyond the shelves of art and landscapes that warrant conversation. Focus on the rust of the railings that separate the field and train track. Focus, on the way raindrops decorate the lake. There is time to stop, see, feel and live. Everything else will come in its own way. It is my time, to bear the lens that seeks inspiration, and experience:

To live. To love.

[chironmurphy]

I used to crawl through labyrinths of greenery to get to this spot. It was really something. I had a cheap backpack, my ice blue water bottle, a Kit Kat, and some rocks I found on the trail leading over. I was 10. In addition to those essentials, my iPod or a book would be my company. Holden, Ralph and Jo right before my eyes. Dot, George and Chris in my ears. An August breeze would tickle my face, and throw my fringe high enough to shake hands with the clouds. Man it was good. One bench. Overlooking an oasis of a canal. Trains propelled past in the distance, and wind turbines waved from afar. The worlds I’d enter placed a blanket on my shoulders. One day I made my way over, and I was warned. Figures occupied my bench, and left their mark on the water. Each time I’d go, their warning more blunt. Eventually I retreated somewhere new. Somewhere closer to home. Now I’m grown. I bob and weave through the jabs of the branches, and slip through the maze. The view has aged but, so have I.

[chironmurphy]

Clawing at the page. Crying a silent plea. On the days where I’m missing my voice, I’m at odds with vision. None of it makes sense. The trees aren’t vessels of life anymore, and I can’t see faces through the sky above me. The posters on my bedroom wall are just pictures. Senseless idols watching me while I waste away my hours. Chirps are noise. Rain is gunfire. There’s a war outside my window, so I should just wait in my room. The smell of grass makes my eyes water, and my notepad is a looming creature that roams my desk. I don’t dare to write even the simplest letter. The risk of slipping under average weighs on my neck, forcing my eyes on a blank canvas. A canvas I’m not fit to paint. A black and white palette. A day spent in suspension. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be back to normal.

[chironmurphy]

The sky is falling. It’s at a slow descent. Taking its time. But we’re watching every second. The clouds are inching closer. Violet strokes and rose streaks grow more and more vivid. The sun is setting on what has been. The sky will fall, straight into the valley behind us. Whether it hits the ground with grace or without, it’ll shatter into a million pieces. Some will pick up the shards, and attempt to build anew. Some will pick them up, and keep them safe, to reflect on them, and remember what was. Some of us, will step right through them. Feet cut. Trails of blood. Once the shards grow old, there’ll be a new spectacle: the stars. The sky has fallen, and now we see clearly. Planets and moons starring right back at us. They glimmer. They invite my eyes. There’s still time to bandage up my feet.