After Christmas it’s a dead-zone full of static & noise unless
I’m on the other side of the world, in a farmhouse in the
Australian out-back. Then it’s simple, nothing to do but chill.
Here on the island I feel like a cotton wool ball that’s being
slowly pulled to pieces.
From fourteen years old ’til nineteen I played a gig every
New Years Eve & that’s what I wish I was doing now. It’s still
in my bones, the need to be on the other side of the glass, get
away from the noise of the silent waiting, be doing something,
keeping busy. Can’t fully throw myself into work because people
expect me to be around, joining in with stuff that scatters in
too many directions. I’d rather be working than here in limbo,
a dancer without a groove, Mr cotton wool ball.