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Rackers

blame

What if you could erase yourself from people’s memories?

Would you want to? You could take away the things that make you cringe. The things that keep you up at night. What you wish they hadn’t talked about, or even remembered in the slightest.

You’re saying yes. But what if you erased it completely? What if you erased the people, the things, the memories that bring you hurt? The lesson learnt would also be erased. You might have done the same thing, with a different person, at a different time.

You want to be better. You want to erase your own memory of everything. You can’t stand the empty feeling it brings you. There is no hurt left. There is no pain. There is only an empty feeling, and you’re not sure how to replace, or fill it. You don’t know how to deal with the emptiness any better than you knew how to deal with the literal pain in your chest, in your gut. The mornings you woke up wanting to heave because you felt so lost, hurt, betrayed.

Is it all in your head? The sheer hurt you’ve felt? You wonder if it was all caused by you, no one else.

Have I just been blaming everyone else for the pain I’ve caused myself? Because who else is there to blame for the thoughts that roll through my head, the way I deal with it, the way I let it stir?

Who else is there to blame but me?

And your eyes are crying and your body feels weak but your mind is telling you that it’s okay, that you don’t need to feel like this. So are you sad? Do you have anyone to blame? Or are you just human?

Categories
Rackers

the girl on the moon

Will Lawter was only five when he first noticed the girl on the moon. He was outside with his dad, lying with their legs in their makeshift camping tent and their heads using the grass as pillows.

His eyes were fluttering closed, sleep encumbering him, when he noticed weird movement on the moon. It looked like a small pair of legs; flinging as if they were on a swing. Will opened his eyes some more, intrigued by who was dancing on the moon.

The girl on the moon flashed her brightest smile and waved to Will. Will swore the stars shone brighter in that moment. He grinned and waved back.

Will Lawter was only five when he first noticed the girl on the moon. And he fell in love.

Will wrote letters to the moon in hopes she would write back. He began with telling her about his family, his friends from school, the things he was learning. As he grew, the meaning behind his letters grew. He would steal moments with her when he could; even though she couldn’t talk back, he felt the answers in his heart.

The time he needed her most came just after his 20th birthday.

He left the doctor feeling…empty.

“Stage IV cancer.”

Stage. Four. Cancer.

Will walked home, leaving his car in the parking lot at the doctor. He thought the fresh air might help to clear his thoughts. Were they sure? It didn’t feel like his whole body was riddled with cancer. He started to run, pounding his feet against the ground, proving them all wrong. The doctors, his body, the world. They were wrong. They had to be.

He could feel the afternoon sun burning into his back, the sky a cloudless blue. He felt as if Mother Nature was betraying him. How is the sun still shining? How is everyone going about their day to day lives? Today, the end of the world as he knew it, the sun was showing off.

Anger and resentment started to seep into his veins. “The world is going to go on, and I will continue to shine, without you,” he felt the sun saying to him.

“I’ll change,” he screamed at the sun. “I’ll be a better person if you just let me live!”

Dusk was settling in by the time he had made it home. The moon was peaking out against the pink hues of the skyline, so Will settled down on the grass and sprawled out. He allowed tears to leak out of his eyes for the first time since hearing the news. Slow and silent, falling into his hair and uncomfortably into his ears.

All Will could do was stare at the sky. Taking as much in as he possibly could. Wishing he could fill his body up with the magic of the night sky, convinced that was the cure to this
human sickness.

So many stars. So many souls. He was going to be one of them soon.

She came out quietly tonight and waited for Will to notice her.

He didn’t need to say anything to know she knew. He didn’t need to write anymore letters.

The sight of her comforted him.

He felt the beat of his heart, he felt it saying, “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.”

From then, Will knew he didn’t need to be scared. He wouldn’t be alone.

© 2017. Rackers.

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Rackers

who would want to love a writer?

I’m standing in line for coffee at Uni. I’m completely zoned out and it takes a moment for me to realise the guy behind me is trying to start a conversation.
“Lines are always so long here hey?”

“Haha yep.”

“Waiting for my coffee takes up pretty much my whole smoko time.”

“Oh, that’s no good,” realising he’s a tradie, not a student. I’ll be honest enough to admit that my interest was sparked at this point. What can I say? Tradies get the ladies.

“So what do you do?” he asked, relentlessly trying to keep the conversation alive.

I laughed because I hate that question at the moment. (I mean, what DO I do?)
“I hate that question. I don’t really DO anything.”

“I saw you walk in to the post office with a bunch of boxes so I thought you must be bulk selling on eBay or something. But I figure you’re studying something since you’re at Uni?”

I then did my awkward, uncomfortable laugh that saves itself for new people or wrong situations.
“Oh, duh. I’m doing a bachelor of writing.”

It was my turn to order my coffee, so conversation halted and my social anxiety riddled self was relieved. I ordered my small flat white and stumbled over giving the change. As I waited, I pulled my phone out to “reply” to “messages” — aka. attempt to shut down conversation.

“So what kind of writer do you want to be? Is it like journalism?”

“Well nah cause that’s it’s own degree. I’m majoring in creative writing so end goal is ideally an author.”

“Good with words then?”

“I like to think so.”

My name was called (incorrectly — “Rachkel” I mean??) as my coffee was ready. I dawdled, admittedly enjoying the attention a little.

“I wouldn’t want to fall in love with a writer.”

I stood there, my lips half pursed and my coffee halfway to my mouth, and just stared at him. Like what the fuck do you reply to that?

“Oh yep…”

“I mean like no offence, it’s just that everything you say or do would live on forever because they’d use it…”

At this point, I couldn’t walk away. Naturally, I got defensive.

“It’s not like they write exactly what you say all the time. And they’re usually covered up by fictional characters.”

“Yeah but I just couldn’t do it. Imagine if I broke your heart.”

“Well no one’s asking you to.”

I would like to say that I walked off gracefully into the sunset, flicking my hair behind my back and making him regret what he said. But I actually walked the wrong way to where I needed to go so I did an awkward turn-dance-thing, it was 11am so no sunset in sight, and my hair’s too fucking short to flick. But you get the gist.

It was weird. I walked to class, going over the conversation in my head; getting angrier each step. Did he change his mind about me because of my career choice?

Did I not do the same thing, being more interested when I learned he was a tradie?

Why do we question other people’s life choices? Base our judgements on what they choose to do to make their own living?
In the end, you questioning my life choices is a sad reflection of you questioning your own. You wouldn’t want to love me because you’re scared of your shitty choices making it on paper. You don’t trust yourself enough for you to love someone who could use it as leverage. Well, congratulations dude; you made it even though you didn’t want to.

It’s not like I don’t know that being a writer, a novelist, any sort of creative career, is somewhat less important in society than say a teacher, doctor, even a fucking concreter.

I was on my way to being something “important.” Important to who?

You. Important to you, and every other person who feels the need to weigh in on everyone’s lives but their own. People who think everyone needs to do a “realistic” job. I know teachers who are destined to be teachers, and can’t wait to get to school every day. I know bricklayers who would choose bricklaying as their career if they had to do it over again. I know speech pathologists who thrive on helping children become better learners, better selves.
Thank fuck for them.

I’m not one of them, nor do I need to be, nor do they ask me to be.

It’s magic, you know. This life. It’s magic how you don’t really need to do what everyone’s telling you to do.

It’s magic how you don’t have to follow society’s expectations. And it’s especially magic when you can say, “Fuck you all. I’m doing what I want to do.”

That’s when you live your most fulfilled life.

 

 

Categories
life tips

rackers’ life tips: part 22

1. Pettiness is a surefire way to find yourself friendless in no time. Stop sweating the small stuff.

2. Telling someone their career goals are ‘unrealistic’ is small-minded and sad for you. Someone has to write the best sellers, produce the music and direct the box office hits. If anything, your negativity just adds fuel to the fire.

3. One of the hardest things I try to wrap my head around is petty people who have a problem with someone, talk to everyone but the person they have a problem with and expect it to get better. Grow a pair and confront your issues instead of feeding your own shitty habits.

4. Life is boring when you don’t have an online order to look forward to…
(http://rackers.bigcartel.com/)

5. “What if people attack you with savage vitriol, and insult your intelligence, and malign your motives, and drag your good name through the mud?
Just smile sweetly and suggest — as politely as you possibly can — that they go make their own fucking art. Then stubbornly continue making yours.” — Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic

6. A hairstyle. Cannot have. A fucking sexuality. When I’m told that my current haircut is “lesbian”, my eyes roll so hard I can see my most buried memories. My hair was not cut for you.

7. Stick around to see it.

8. Nah but legiterally, think about it. We live a certain time away from each other. I manage to make it to your house with no complaints, ever. I ask you to come to me. “Oh, but you live so far.” ???????? I travel the EXACT SAME DISTANCE to get to you. Don’t be a shit mate.

9. There are start times at events for a reason. Don’t be a shit mate x 2.

10. And when it’s all said and done, what we’re left with is this single moment. The “present.” Right now.
Do with it what you may; waste it, watch Netflix, eat shit, drink multitudes of tea/coffee/beer. Do me a favour and close your eyes for a moment. Realise that, truly and honestly, you cannot seize every single moment and use it to your fullest potential; it’s physically impossible. But if you, right now, can look at your ugly reflection, with your double chin and jumper that desperately needs a wash (no? just me? ok), in your computer screen after binging on your current fave Netflick, and say: “This is making me happy,” then do as you please. This life is yours, after all. No one can dictate what is yours.