Looks Like Nothing

Callum Ross-Rowland

Doors and walls separate me – I am tired in the confines of my home. Familiar spaces take on new shapes, and the depths of each corner grow darker. I blend into the background; colours become muted, and stillness suffocates me.

The struggle of feeling unseen separates me from the only place I have ever known. I feel insane for wanting to set boundaries. Moments like this force the walls to close around me until I am strangled. I forget the tiles are covered in the dog’s hair and my partner’s. The carpet grows old, and the screen on the door has more holes than it used to. I wash dishes and stare at the grime around the windowsill as a stranger’s furniture wets and dries outside.

My body is amplified in each room I inhabit throughout the hours of the day. I watch through tired eyes as it changes—lines and curves form—and dust builds on the off-white walls as the fan ticks on an angle in my ear. Frustration flattens me as I stare at the background of my reflection. My thoughts curl and repel. This cigarette doesn’t have a taste anymore.

It becomes deliberate – each movement. This home shrinks while I am inside. I am formless in shape as I forget the sound of my voice. I have forgotten how to be a brother, a son, a partner…

Artist: Callum Ross-Rowland (he/him) is a Meanjin (Brisbane)-based creative writing student at QUT. He was the 2023 Literary Salon’s Photographer with his recent Diploma in Photo Imaging from Billy Blue (Torrens). He was recently shortlisted for Photographer of the Year in the Animal and Nature category and regularly photographs for Artful Heads magazine, where he captures portraits of artists from different mediums. Find him on Instagram @alrightatart. 

Edited by: E.L. Maloney and Mia Paton