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[one-of-the-people]

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[one-of-the-people]

Is getting older some kind of submission of dreams? An allocated circumstance only accessible through make believe? I miss when going to the moon and touching the stars was deemed feasible. I miss when I could find friendship in inanimate objects, or speak to bugs without question.

Like most we were encouraged to do unimaginable things. Sure, we can do 'anything', but only at the expense of another's circumstance. My dreams are now at my own expense.

What standard or quality did I set myself up for? Are youthful hopes not less of a purpose than a deeply considered career?

My dreams now are filled with mundane shenanigans, like having special cutlery and full cupboards. No longer can I imagine landscapes in duvets or create triumphant narratives at bathtime.

I wish I knew less.

If I could write down everything I knew on a piece of paper and burn it from my mind I would.

Claims of knowledge is toxic.

Mysticism is naive.

I know what I would rather, but the very 'knowing' is tragic in itself.

[one-of-the-people]

[one-of-the-people]

by Andrei Riabovitchev

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Under a natural blanket Fresh air and rest lies on the floor.

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delicate

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The city in an ocean of flowers

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Brisbane suburbs

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Art by Alai Ganuza

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not in this economy

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Apparition

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Brutalist and homely

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Tall orders

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Garden of hell