Another week in the trenches. The tick of the clock, the grind of routine, and a laptop screen full of studies that feel more like punishment than progress.
My head drifts elsewhere, to the road, to warmer climes, to a van and a life lived between places. Far from this canvas prison we’ve endured for seven months.
The work in Alice is fine and even good at times, thanks to the people I’ve met. But this town isn’t for me. Dusty, restless, it clings longer than intended. Promises hold me here, and I’ll keep them, but come August’s end, I’m gone.
The caravan park has its own cast of characters. Our neighbour, an educator, drives twelve hours from her community to land here, only to offload her romantic disasters on Will at every chance. She’s harmless, sure, but it wears thin. Word is she’s moving to a cabin soon which is good news for us, maybe salvation for her.
The books call, relentless as ever. So does a cold beer. Maybe both. Beer, like whisky, fixes more than it breaks.
And so I stall, with purpose. Holding onto the small comforts, dreaming of roads still waiting, and adventures still unclaimed.
Yours in defiance of monotony.
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