# data[].attributes.body
The world is what we make it, what we dream of every moment of every day. The torn hatred mystified by a love to love. What we feel, the thick of skin or the velvet snake of dilapidated feathers, they are all a form of beauty.

But what if you cannot see it?

A beauty that can only be heard.

Melody that reclaims us, a forging of life. We can not live without the earths righteous breath, a sound and forlorn sigh. A kaleidoscope of humanities essence pressed into one note. We cry, we laugh, we dance, and we yell to the sky to listen. And they do. They help us build brick upon scaffolding, they bring memory that forges voice.

A song like textured breath. A patterned range, so singular, that it encompasses us all.

# data[].attributes.body
Woven in tight stitches, rippled to create an elastic bond around the neck. It is soft to the touch, stretching and light, bouncy against my calloused fingers that hold the fabric tight.

The bell hangs from the coiling and lets off a soft sound, a sound so light, music to my ears. A reminder of a presence, of the soft padding of feet against the hardwood floor. The bell jingles with the sway of her body, a breathy hello to those in the room around her.

It is cold to the touch, and yet the creature behind it is warm, alive, her fur brushing against the collar, her body vibrating like an engine.

I am hers and she is mine. The donning of fabric holds no bonds behind it, and yet she wears it proudly.

# data[].attributes.body
'The Sirens' was painted by Australian painter John Longstaff in 1892. A painting done throughout the Symbolist movement, when paintings were used to purvey some type of emotional symbolism. Little else is known about the creation of the artwork, although I did not want to know.

When I first encountered the piece, I could almost immediately feel the emotion that exuded from it. It was powerful, in the way that the colours touched you and left you feeling frozen.

I had spent a good hour with this painting, jotting down my feelings, trying to feel with it. And in the end I realised my overridden wanting to understand the fear and despair, the waves of desire that led to this mans doom.

And I decided I wanted to write my piece on that feeling alone. The 'wanting' for more. The effect Sirens have on the psyche, the need to understand the world.

# data[].attributes.body
What is the use of you? A vase so decomposed, so little use of you left. I want to feel bad, and yet I never understood the vase with no stem. No flowers rooting out of you, blooming, touched by sun rays and drinking wells. You hold the water that brings them life, to their chopped limbs. Without you, they form no use either, except to whither upon the concrete.

Were you tired of the labour? or were you just forgotten like the rest of them. Forced to bring a life of your own as you were left to gather dust.

How is one to decompose if it never lived in the first place?

I guess it is how life goes. Life finds you, grips its vines around your frame and encircles your raw, brittle state. You were once beautiful, I think. The soul behind those woven leaves. And yet, the new colour clips against your porcelain skin in a way that the sun rejoices. A reawakening. A braven history endowed through each crevice, engraved to become who you are now.

# data[].attributes.body
Brenda, the big red fish hung high above the mantle.

Her body amassed the deep ocean, her stark red form frozen amidst corals. The glass restricted her movement, a framed entrapment that glued her forever in one spot. She remained untouched for more than 20 years, forgotten in plain sight.

She was in the background. Her goggled eyes watched as I bled through life like an unstitched wound. She watched my joy, as I tumbled on the scratchy carpet with the dogs, the summer air crawling against my skin. She lamented as I cried in the shadows of the room. Only her and I, me and her, us, together. I was alone, yet her eyes never left me behind.

The day I left my family home was the day I finally, truly acknowledged her.

Boxes of clothes were thrown into the back of the ute, trinkets and rubbish I had collected over the years spilling from bin bags. A mess of my memories valued to nill.

I walked through the house, my last goodbye to the good and bad that oozed the air. Memories that clung through every drip of colour, drawn in intricate detail through the worn shape of the couch, the broken fencing of carpet that tagged at my shoe.

The air was thick with raw emotion, and it was all drawn to one spot. Brenda, gathering dust.

I had asked my dad what her story was, and he only shrugged.

"Got it from your uncle in Queensland. Think it's the Barrier Reef."

So flippant. A hand me down, not even a desire, a need for her. She was just there. And I did not understand why, but for the first time ever, she was alive.

She was moving in a beautiful stark blue, her fins brushing against the corals. She was alive, just as the day paint met canvas. And so, with little hesitation, I asked my father if I could bring her with me.

# data[].attributes.body
Desolation spreads a toxic mould. a shadow whithers in each corner. Smoke breathes the air like its own, forging a warm, wet concave in the empty space between us.

Either an escape or a prison of our despair. A waning vessel, waiting for the time to be met face-on.

And this fracture in time, although daunting, creeps into your lungs, crisp and luxurious. It's true and potent. It takes you by surprise.

You scratch your blunt nails against the toxic rise, turning our skin mottled green. Your tongue is numb with dried preconceptions. Our heads burn, no longer breathing in unison.

We are falling. As we continued to tantalise our dreams, sat inside this house, choking on our own grit.