Bright Death - part one

Bright Death - part one

 

is this it? really? this? is death?

He shades his eyes. Very bright.

Ali Smith

 

Death is this huge, bright thing, and the bigger and brighter it is, the more we have to drive ourselves crazy thinking about things.

Haruki Marukami

 

These are the paths, the bright and dark,

Deemed as eternal in this world;

By the one he goes and ne’er returns,

By the other he comes back again.

The Bhagavadgita

 

//

 

I’m flying down the private access road. Feathers ruffling in the wind; a bullet in boardshorts. These two wheels, rusty chain and matte black frame have taken me everywhere I’ve ever needed to go. With sleep in my eye, the sun is just beginning to climb its way up the sky. Cicadas chirp as the bush goes by - a green and brown blur.

 

I’m trying to remember the dream I had this morning. I’d forgotten to write it down in my rush to get out the door, grabbing my bike before I could think of an excuse to stay in bed.

 

In my dream I was sitting around a campfire, on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. Hands was there, drinking water from an old plastic bottle and eating an orange. He was my footy coach in juniors and taught me more about the world than anyone else.

 

Hands died a year ago.

 

There was a girl by the campfire, too. I didn’t recognise her, but she was beautiful. She had big brown eyes and hair tied hastily in a high ponytail. No one said a word. The three of us just sat there, looking out from our eyrie into the night. 

 

When I woke up in my room, it took a while to find my bearings. It felt like everything had slightly shifted.

 

//

 

In these early morning moments, the sky a milky blue speckled with the last remaining stars, I imagine the sun and moon as shift workers. The sun is fresh, ready to start another big day; the moon in a jovial mood having knocked off and keen to hang around for a chat. They go through this routine every morning; the moon launching into tedious stories about the tides, the sun wanting to punch the clock and get on with the day. The changing of the guard of the night.

 

The moon is rambling about the Big Dipper when I hit the pothole. My front tyre catches in the cavity, making a right angle against the frame and sending me flying over the handlebars. It happens too quickly to shut my eyes. The coarse gravel road below is cold and grey. Cicada song grows louder in my head, a crescendo of intensity as I tumble through the thin morning air. Isn’t it too early for them to be singing? I realise I’ve never thought about how cicadas make their sound. They’re so ingrained in my world I’ve never questioned it. Right now, their chirps are tiny pins pricking my brain.

 

It only takes a few seconds to realise I haven’t hit the ground yet. In fact, I’m higher up than when I began to fall. The road below me is a small snake, slithering its way towards the ocean. I’m not falling anymore. I’m soaring.

 

Suspended over the water, I see schools of colourful fish. Pods of dolphins surfing and wrestling like puppy dogs. Coal ships making their way along the horizon. Impressed on the ocean below is a shadow. I see two huge wings and a tail. It mirrors my every move, effortlessly gliding over the water. I can’t tell if it’s following me or if I’m following it.

 

The day’s first surfers are paddling out at the main beach. Lights in kitchens are flicking on. The town is slowly waking up. I wonder if anyone sees me up here, hovering in my boardshorts. It’s not cold, but not warm either. I don’t feel good or bad; worried or excited. I’m suspended between two worlds. Precariously perched between night and day. The sun and the moon. And then I fall.

 

Bright Death is out on 26 August. Preorder it here.