I took two photos,
that grabbed my attention today.
I don’t know what it was about today, everything seemed to have an impact on me. The smell of banana muffins cooking in the oven, the sunlight burning the book pages and hurting my eyes, the spice on my tongue after lunch. And then on my walk, seeing two hills hoists rotating with the wind, bed sheets draped and wavering like flags in surrender.
Instantly, as I took these photos, I realised how much I felt like an intruder. They say if you want to know more about someone, look through their bin. But sheets feel much more personal. Sheets touch your writhing body, carry tears, blood stains from a scab unhealed. Collective sweat of shared love. I felt like I was stepping inside a home, unwelcome. I could not know the people these sheets belonged to; I could only speculate. Plastic ties stringing across pole after pole; a few gum trees, their only privacy. Acting as a channel to airing thoughts or feelings. Intimate ideas <relief> then pangs of guilt, the smell of 15 consecutive days of depression naps.
Why would we trust our sheets to be seen?
I assume the same way we need to tell people our secrets, trauma or our pain. Inside ourselves, we can’t form connections, vulnerability, feel warmth from others. The same way we can’t hang our sheets inside, damp. We air our most intimate thoughts, only to take them inside again after the sun gives them back to us. (hoping they’ll feel different)Return to issues