storm

Written by Cathoel Jorss, published 10 years ago

I just cycled home through the spattering rain, with thunder rolling heavy overneath, and as I swept down the hill riding on my brakes I passed a cluster of dark-clad people raising their umbrellas, phones to their ears, released from their desks for the day and not happy. They were large but looked not so much fat as spilled, a kind of liquid inactivity none of us had two decades back and now even swimsuit models can’t avoid. They looked as though the world had offered them poor options and their lives were dragged by addiction and stimulants and their day jobs were dull and dispiriting. Flowers of colour in the form of bright umbrellas struck me as indications of courage. And I thought about how with all our beautiful ingenuity we have failed ourselves, and how we’ve birthed the first generation of babies in human history who are likely to live shorter lives than their parents. Along the backs of the houses and light industrial sheds the river, muddy and sludgy and odorous between the prickling mangroves, lazed brimming with its greenish life and drawing down to the sea and back again all its clean secrets. I need a better life. I need more time on my feet. I want to live in a happier world. I want to get away from my screen and all the screens in waiting rooms and bus stations and fuel stops and public spaces and gather all the home going commuters for a game of touch footy in the sweeping black rain.