The Dream

On holiday—
it wasn’t comfortable.

The view was nice
from my bed,
the bed was too short,
jammed into a window reveal.

I desired
to watch the sunset—
it was just around the corner,
out of sight.

To find a place
to witness it,
I had to climb over walls.

—

At the bar,
Trevor Noah looked awkward.

I told him
I liked his show—
I’d forgotten his name.

I asked him
if he was waiting
for a date.

He seemed nervous.

—

At the restaurant,
the sea view
was
in darkness.

The best feature,
out of sight.

I walked through
to look at it.

Did the tsunami hit here?
Of course it did.

—

I was bored.

I decided
to rewire an electric plug—
I realised
I hadn’t isolated the switch.

I did it again.

Then I announced:
being an electrician
was too dangerous
for me.

—

A woman
tried to confide in me
in a crowded room.

I walked out,
expecting her to follow.

She didn’t.

While I waited,
I tried
to find a place
to see the sunset—
without having
to climb.

—

Back in the room,
I asked a couple
what they’d done
on their holiday.

I was going home tomorrow.
I’d done nothing.
I felt guilty.

They said
they’d done nothing.

A young man approached—
proudly told me
he’d driven 70KM
around the island
that day.

“Good for you,”
I thought,
walking away.

The Meaning

bed in the window
Even in beauty, I’m uncomfortable. Cramped into a frame that doesn’t fit—barely able to enjoy what I’ve earned.

sunset
The moment of meaning. Just out of reach. I can’t sit and enjoy—I have to climb for it. Joy shows up as effort.

trevor noah at the bar
Polished public man, rendered awkward and nervous. This is me outgrowing the need to be impressed. Also: why do I always approach unavailable men like I have something to prove?

the sea / tsunami
Dark, vast, past trauma acknowledged.
“Did it hit here?”
“Of course it did.”
Memory disguised as inquiry. Grief without spectacle.

electric plug
I fix because I’m bored. I risk injury for the illusion of control. I do it again— it’s still unsafe. Eventually, I admit:
“This is too dangerous.”
This is growth disguised as resignation.

confiding woman
I make space for intimacy. I walk out to give her privacy. She doesn’t come.
Another moment where I prepare, and no one steps into the space I made.

holiday guilt
I did nothing. I feel bad. Others did nothing—I try to justify. Then someone brags about performance—and I finally don’t care.
“Good for you,”
I think, walking away. That’s detachment. That’s real.

What Lingers…

What if joy doesn’t have to be earned through effort, just accepted?

What if rest isn’t idleness—but resistance to performance disguised as purpose?

---

Marginalia

This dream closes a cycle.
In How to Survive a Storm and Still Talk Shit, I ran from the wave.
In What If the Sea Takes It All?, I wondered about letting it come.
Here, I stand in the aftermath.

In What if Rest Feels Like Dying?, I feared stopping.
Now I name the guilt, and still claim the right to be still.

In Pedalling While They Take the Bus, I exhausted myself for others.
In Walking Away with the Door Still Open, I refused to wait.
Here, I reach for joy without needing to earn it.

Trevor Noah—famous, present, yet I can’t recall his name.
In Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords, I paid homage to what once filled me.
Now I don’t.