Those were the days, when summer stretched before us like a lounging jungle cat. Lazy, languid, full of promise. When the mulberry trees were heavy with fruit and our lips and fingers were forever stained purple. We gorged ourselves until our tummies ached and our bodies sang with fructose.

As the sun beat down on our little brown bodies, we would gallop down the hill, our legs whirring a little faster than was comfortable - through the gate and with a SPLASH, launch ourselves into the murky waters of the dam.

Games of chase and tag, the odd attempt to half-drown a sibling, swimming like sleek little otters. Our hands were clever then, when we'd build complicated mud bathing systems on the clay-mud banks - small pools to heat the water, and a large pool to bathe in.

Later, we'd catch our horses, put their bridles on, take some snacks and ride up into the hills. Winding through the trees, searching for adventure. We'd hide from bandits, we swear we'd heard sneaking - and then canter wildly up the hill to escape their clutches.

Little engineers we were. Always making, creating, building. Like the cubby across the creek, where we felled slender trees with our little hatchet and constructed a yard for our horses using saplings and bailing twine. Then we made a log cabin, small, sturdy, with no roof. And as soon as it was made, we abandoned it, to play by the pear tree - throwing the fruit at each other and yowling when contact was made.

Mum would inspect our bruises and tut, as the sun sank from the sky - and the mosquitoes hummed to life. Then feed us around the battered dining table and gather us on the couch, hugging us close as she read a story and did all the voices.

Some days, a friend would join and we'd take them rowing on the dam, to show them the duck nests and the secret stack of rocks we'd balanced there. Sometimes we'd play by the house - in the shade of the verandah, complex games involving paying tolls with leaves and racing around on our scooters and bikes.

Other times we'd collect banksias and trade them for a particularly fine stick or smooth pebble.

One day faded into the next - as the sun burnt down and the grass turned crisp and brown. Summer, it was the best of times.

I dialled your number

It rang three times, no answer

Then the tone went dead

And I remembered you're gone

Free from me, from us

I hang up the phone

And my shredded heart with it

Reality collides

With hopeful, fading dreams, I

Should have known better

Alone. Surrounded by people. With strange eyes and hidden intentions. The girl-who-was-almost-a-woman shrugged her heavy backpack onto her shoulders as she searched for somewhere to sit, somewhere to lay her head. The ferry was filled to brimming, as people milled about, some heading to cabins, those with cheap tickets scanning the common areas for somewhere to sink to the floor. Somewhere they might be able to snatch a few hours of precious sleep, if the seas weren't too rough, if they could keep the harsh flicker of the fluorescent light from permeating their eye-lids.

Already territory was being claimed and defended - hostile expressions warding off any who sought a spot too close to the first settlers. Even spaces further away were full. The girl-who-was-almost-a-woman had been one of the final passengers to step aboard, so there was nowhere for her to go.

The boom of the ferry horn ripped through the air and she felt it shudder through her as the mooring lines were cast off - and the great, hulking vessel left the dock. Piraeus was bathed in the lazy golden sunlight of the evening, softening the edges of the cityscape and lending it a romantic aspect. She almost longed to be back on land - rather than amongst this territorial rabble, but the ferry was heading out to sea and unless she jumped into the frothy, murky depths, there was no-where else to go until morning. The decks were mostly empty now, but the wind bit at her hair and whipped sea spray through the air. Even so high above the water.

She needed somewhere quiet and dry, somewhere as yet unclaimed. She waited until the sun had snatched the last light from the sky and the stars had winked into view. Then crept towards the cabins. To the warm, quiet dry corridors. Somewhere she could roll out her sleeping mat and close her weary eyes.

A place not too far from the door to the deck, that she might be able to get out quick if she needed to, but not too close to the common areas, that there would be many people walking past. The hall was empty and she was soon spread out, grinning at her own cleverness at finding somewhere to rest her head. She was between two cabin doors, tucked as close to the wall as possible, so there was still room to walk past her.

She was just drifting off to sleep, when sounds filtered through. Little yelps. The girl-who-was-almost-a-woman startled awake and sat up. Was someone in trouble? She listened carefully - the sounds unabated. Her eyes turned round when she realised they were sounds of pleasure, rather than of pain. She could have moved, she should have moved. But she stayed - and listened as an entire soundtrack of desire played out, to the last shuddering groan.

She left the ferry in the morning but the memory stayed with her. A lasting souvenir.

Is everyone just sleepwalking through life? Sometimes it feels like they are. Like I am. Like there is an endless amount of time stretching ahead in which to do all of the things that might actually make me happy.

It terrifies me - how disconnected people are from the natural environment - the level of cognitive dissonance that occurs around notions of consumerism. We're all aware of the nature of a finite resource, we've all finished a carton of milk before. We know how to care for things, because otherwise they will break or be worn out (whether it be a car, a pair of shoes, a relationship) - and yet, when it comes to trees and plants and wild animals, they are seen as both unimportant and replaceable. And what do we do instead? We play violent video games, we scroll for hours on social media, we binge watch TV and most people I meet have never felt so lonely, so disempowered and so disconnected.

Sleepwalking. Everyone seems like they are sleepwalking. So stressed, so overwhelmed by the relentless bad news cycle, by the inability to disconnect from the workplace, from wider society, from the constant pressure to do, do, do. Are we not human beings? Are we not simply allowed to be?

Sometimes the state of the world, the state of my country, the state of my town and family, the state of myself - makes me want to cry. I don't think we were supposed to be aware of every bad thing happening in the world all the time. I think it skews the mind. If you only ever hear the bad things, it makes it seem like only bad things occur. I'm not sure I'm supposed to care about people I haven't seen in years, to follow their journey through life and compare it to my own. I'm not sure all these screens are good for us. Why look at a forest, when you could walk through one, fingertips brushing against the bark, the smell of leaves in your lungs, the tendrils of sunlight tickling your skin. When did everything become so virtual? Even birthday cards are digital now.

Gone are the days of long phone calls, replaced instead by emojis and memes. Gone is any sense of direction - you just punch it in the address into maps and follow the voices instructions. Gone are the days of presence and awareness. Of patience and attention to detail.

Gone. Flattened, smoothed out. Park benches are no longer works of art. Walls are achingly plain, art is an afterthought. The only motivation - how can I get it cheaper, so I can get more?

But the price is always paid somewhere. Be it in a sweatshop with workers hunched over machines, be it the deluge of plastic washing up on once pristine beaches, or bunker fuel leaking into the ocean. Cheap electricity, but a poisoned waterway. Flights at half price, but acid rain in Canada. Bargain cuts of meat, but animals who spent their entire life suffering. Somewhere, the price is always paid.

Some days it all seems hopeless. The scale of humanities collective dissonance seems insurmountable. Greed and capitalism dominate and triumph in every arena. And I am exhausted. Of trying to exist within this system that wishes to control me. To mold me into a good little member of society. Working hard, spending often, never asking too many questions.

Some days it feels like this is not some accident, but a very deliberate situation, to keep people so entertained, so overwhelmed, so distracted by petty arguments on the internet, that they do not realise they are the frog in the pot, slowly being boiled alive.

I long for kindness, for connection, for peace. Sometimes that feels like I am asking for the very stars to be brought to me, so lofty do these ideals seem, so unattainable. I try. I do. I try to be kind, to be present, in the small ways, in the only ways I can. To the people in front of me. To contribute to my community, to share my art, to make people laugh and smile and think, to volunteer and share my most precious resource, my time. Because even to me that seems infinite, although I know it is not.

Some days I wonder, if I received a terminal diagnosis, how that might change the urgency of my life. What I might do differently, if I knew I had but a year left on this earth. If that would clarify what was truly important. Would I write? Would I spend more time with family? Would I forgive those who had hurt me and move past it? Some days I wonder

If everything that I can imagine is real

I shall think happy thoughts

Of peaceful valleys and vibrant nature

Of children playing and soft music

I shall dream of abundant harvests

And cosy hearths

A place where all have somewhere safe

To rest their weary head

Where soft hands rest on those who suffer

Where kind words and gentle tones abound

A world where the stitches of community

Are treasures beyond measure

A world with nature at it's centre

In all it's varied seasons

Where creativity can flourish

And healing is part of the lifelong journey

Where families and friends

Support and comfort each other

And each unique soul is embraced

With understanding and acceptance

I write the things I cannot say

The jagged truths

That make me quake and hide

I write to make sense of myself

Of the world, of beauty

Of my place within it all

I write to make people feel

To laugh, to cry, to understand

This great life adventure

I feel it always

Lurking in the shadows

Scraping its claws

Down the walls of my mind

Whispering such awful things

Adulthood is an exercise

In resisting these baser instincts

To lust and feast

To think only of myself

Of my pleasure and delight

It dreams of violence

Malevolence and control

It sings that I am special

That the rules that govern others

Should not apply to me

Sometimes I fall

For it's silky bear-trap promises

I become the beast,

I bite and growl and injure

Then retreat into the safety of my den

I wish that kindness were effortless

As easy as breathing

But most days it is a struggle

To be empathetic of others

To be compassionate to myself

The beast delights in shame

It wraps it around us both

Like a devastating cloak

It dances across the day

Stamping me beneath it's heavy feet

It leaves no room

For more delicate sensibilities

Like love or tenderness

There is only survival

Survival at any cost

It must have saved me too

This animal inside me

Fought when I couldn't fight myself

With tooth and claw and rage

Fought to survive

Is life a journey to resist the beast

To tame that wild animal

To make it pliable and calm

Or is it futile madness

To resist who I am, when no-ones watching?

The fog is clearing

From the corners of mine eyes

As years slip by

The haze dissipates

And I start to see

What was shrouded

Slowly revealed

Through the layers

Of mist and conditioning

Of youth and foolishness

The things of true import

Time, freedom, love

Understanding, growth

Patience and kindness

Truth - I see the truth

And I long to speak it

To shout to the rooftops

What has taken me a lifetime

To try to understand

But all comes in good time

It is clear now

As the sand flows through

That pain leads to understanding

To kindness and patience

And the ability to revel in peace

That broken hearts lead to tenderness

To care and gentle words

To tears kissed away

To shared cups of tea

And wicked cryptic crosswords

Aching joints and muscles

Lead to exercise and movement

And delighting in the pleasure

Of inhabiting this body

In all its perfect imperfection

Fits of sadness and depression

And retreating to the jagged

Grey corners of my heart

Make the sunshine warmer

The flowers more radiant

The sand that's flowed is gone

I'll never retrieve it

From the hands of time

But what's left is mine

Mine and no-one else's

To spend how I choose

Sickness or health

Love or loneliness

Creativity or boredom

Peace or despair

I am the scribe of my destiny

The only one who holds the pen

And I can choose to live

My dreams or my nightmares

Hmm, I think I choose dreams

Those ocean eyes gazed

And I, snared like a rabbit

Tumbled for him

- -

Sluggish thoughts

Anaesthetised by fatigue

And aches in my limbs

As I sit and wonder

Where are they?

Those bright sparks of inspiration?

Where have they gone?

All is dull and muted

Empty and worn

The world turns slowly

And I stay still

Paralysed by lack

Lack of ideas

Lack of motivation

Lack of spark

Lack of self-belief

I sip my tea

And stare at the blank page

It stares back - blankly

White and mocking

So instead, I clean the car

I fold my clothes

I brush the snarls from my hair

I gaze out the window

I breathe and listen

Bird calls, the whisper of breeze

The whine of the washing machine

A dog barking in the distance

My eyes follow the delicate wings

Of an orange butterfly

As it flits through the garden

Then alights on a pink flower

Ants are march across bricks

A hornet hovers near the window

Clouds drift lazily in the blue sky

All oblivious to my lack

And as the tiny dramas play out

Under the warm caress of the sun

Of life and death and survival

I imagine living among them

In the soft dirt of the anthill

Or the hexagons of the wasp's next

Under a shady leaf

Or up, up in the restless sky

That which I might tread on

In a careless moment

Is their whole world

And everything that's dear

And the tiny becomes magnificent

And all important

And as it does, my lack retreats

When compared to the majesty of life