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This piece was originally taken from the author’s journal, written during their time in prison in Victoria.
Locked down for the third time this week, sixth time this past fortnight, with Bird of Prey playing on Rage, the shitty fuzzy speakers on the shitty fuzzy TV barely able to conjure up something that resembles bass. The man in the video is zooming through the air like I used to – up and down, round and round – while now in prison I look up at the sky through bars. The sky looks infinite, but that’s just an illusion. You could say the same about freedom. You haul yourself out of that airplane door, then flip onto your back to watch how quickly the plane shrinks into a speck. It seems as though it’s speeding away from you, but really that’s how quickly you are plummeting toward the ground. When you’re in the middle of the sky’s vastness by yourself, you don’t realise how much you’re moving, how much space you have. You feel as though you’re suspended in mid-air somewhere between the clouds and the moon. You can scream, you can shout, you can lose control – flop around like a ragdoll – and then you regain control as quickly as you lost it. Because the loss of control was a choice, a taste of chaos.
And, before you know it, the clouds that seemed so far away are creeping up on you – mountainous, cascading puffs ready to envelop you. It somehow always surprises you that they feel like nothing (if you’re lucky) or razorblades (if it’s raining).
You look at your wrist – it tells you that it’s 4,000 feet to death, almost time to slow down. You throw the pilot chute into the wind like a grenade, look up and pray to something that the flapping of fabric will turn into the pop of a parachute. It does, most of the time.
You glide over the clouds like an airplane, skimming them with your toes, and suddenly you feel like a trespasser on God’s terrain – but you make yourself at home, basking in the sunlight before the mass of mist swallows you whole. It’s almost completely silent apart from your canopy whispering above you. Everywhere you look, it’s the same white. You’re corkscrewing straight down, but your brain tells you that you’re still; there’s no up or down or anything in between – just the white belly of the beast painted onto your eyes. You call out to the other jumpers in the sky. You scream as loud as you can.
Nothing. It’s way too vast. This cloud is yours.
Eventually the space beneath your feet darkens to reveal the ever-growing ground; a paradox screaming toward you. Contact will either grant you some more time in this life or completely end it.
And now here I am – pondering the sky’s infinity from a 3 x 3.5 metre cell, where I’ve been locked for over 16 hours at a time with no warning multiple times this week. Through a hole in my heavy metal door, I’m offered cold toast, which was cooked in a toaster that a pigeon ate from yesterday, with bread that is almost definitely mouldy.
Before here, I was too lost in my freedom to feel the ground rushing toward me. This is my raincloud, and my skin is burning. I used to leave the house and not know when I’d come back. Now I go into a cell and not know when I’ll get out. I used to play in the sky and now I’m tied to the ground.
Focus on landing – don’t crash. You’ll jump again, but don’t flirt with the clouds.
Rage on a Saturday morning.
Locked down for the third time this week, sixth time this past fortnight, with Bird of Prey playing on Rage, the shitty fuzzy speakers on the shitty fuzzy TV barely able to conjure up something that resembles bass. The man in the video is zooming through the air like I used to – up and down, round and round – while now in prison I look up at the sky through bars. The sky looks infinite, but that’s just an illusion. You could say the same about freedom. You haul yourself out of that airplane door, then flip onto your back to watch how quickly the plane shrinks into a speck. It seems as though it’s speeding away from you, but really that’s how quickly you are plummeting toward the ground. When you’re in the middle of the sky’s vastness by yourself, you don’t realise how much you’re moving, how much space you have. You feel as though you’re suspended in mid-air somewhere between the clouds and the moon. You can scream, you can shout, you can lose control – flop around like a ragdoll – and then you regain control as quickly as you lost it. Because the loss of control was a choice, a taste of chaos.
And, before you know it, the clouds that seemed so far away are creeping up on you – mountainous, cascading puffs ready to envelop you. It somehow always surprises you that they feel like nothing (if you’re lucky) or razorblades (if it’s raining).
You look at your wrist – it tells you that it’s 4,000 feet to death, almost time to slow down. You throw the pilot chute into the wind like a grenade, look up and pray to something that the flapping of fabric will turn into the pop of a parachute. It does, most of the time.
You glide over the clouds like an airplane, skimming them with your toes, and suddenly you feel like a trespasser on God’s terrain – but you make yourself at home, basking in the sunlight before the mass of mist swallows you whole. It’s almost completely silent apart from your canopy whispering above you. Everywhere you look, it’s the same white. You’re corkscrewing straight down, but your brain tells you that you’re still; there’s no up or down or anything in between – just the white belly of the beast painted onto your eyes. You call out to the other jumpers in the sky. You scream as loud as you can.
Nothing. It’s way too vast. This cloud is yours.
Eventually the space beneath your feet darkens to reveal the ever-growing ground; a paradox screaming toward you. Contact will either grant you some more time in this life or completely end it.
And now here I am – pondering the sky’s infinity from a 3 x 3.5 metre cell, where I’ve been locked for over 16 hours at a time with no warning multiple times this week. Through a hole in my heavy metal door, I’m offered cold toast, which was cooked in a toaster that a pigeon ate from yesterday, with bread that is almost definitely mouldy.
Before here, I was too lost in my freedom to feel the ground rushing toward me. This is my raincloud, and my skin is burning. I used to leave the house and not know when I’d come back. Now I go into a cell and not know when I’ll get out. I used to play in the sky and now I’m tied to the ground.
Focus on landing – don’t crash. You’ll jump again, but don’t flirt with the clouds.
Rage on a Saturday morning.
This image depicts the wild woman and the apple tree. It is inspired by the character 'Aofie' in this year's production.
Some say Love is overrated. It has no relevance anymore I say. I know more than love unbound, I can make these prayerful sounds.
What filled my days before, I do not know. I have so much love within me, from inside my heart I glow.
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