Madi O’Carroll is an emerging artist with a focus on the queer experience. She's interested in the history and form of storytelling in relation to personal identity and community. She's a graduate of the Gaiety School of Acting full time acting course.
We don’t know how to complain about something that could eat us whole.
Reverence, apology, God, bitten thumbnails.
Gestures left like mittens in the hallway, still warm.
Lists are promises to stay awake
though perhaps always have been.
Family is just a three-syllable word on good days,
and another hour is a timestamp closer o
or further away from? a nameless something in a someone’s garden, once,
lukewarm lemonade or new, hot envy.
I will resent the escapism that catastrophe movies once provided, resent Nicholas Cage.
I now (hopefully) pump blood to my vital organs because its another thing to be doing with the time;
that big lump of life that once stretched out but now lies cracked
a split cornucopia spilling apologetic mumbles of thanks and bargaining, and
pleasure is no longer a distraction. Pleasure is a default. So is distraction.
I remember that Life is a past tense thing, pointedly encountering it in every second.
I think that’s what fantasy writers want when they show us shadowy, air-windowed worlds.
I think that’s what physics that I don’t understand wants when it says time-space.
I think that’s what I want.
for Right Now to be already over and just starting, all at once.
The future holds us by our breath,
the present held within the width of a word.
A decent deal. The embrace of words has kept me safe for long enough.