The days before tomorrow
Max Olin
[Channel 1]: THE DAYS BEFORE
You’re leaning against a wall, slumped over with sweat soaking through your clothes. The cold tiles of the wall behind you are providing a remedy to the feverish ache in your lower back. Empty. The startling absence of others in this room is almost enough to convince you that you’ve just fallen into an alternate reality—if it wasn’t for the pumping music pulsing from the other room. You glance into the mirror, your eyeliner has completely smudged, giving you the look of a rabid racoon. At least that will make the train ride home easier, nobody wants to sit next to the person with tangled hair, raccoon eyeliner and a vest that smells like the worst concoction of beer, smokes and other people’s BO. As you catch your breath, you begin to inspect the details of the bathroom you find yourself in. Not clean, which isn’t surprising. Stickers line the mirrors, and the toilet cubicle doors, and the walls.
You’re sitting on someone else’s back porch, dressed as an axe murderer from a semi-niche slasher. The blue camping chair you’re sitting on squeaks with any slight movement, providing a symphony whenever anyone gets up or sits down. You might be trapped like this forever. The Halloween moon is half full, her vertical lidded gaze meeting yours as you glance up and take another sip. The mixture in your cup is abhorrent, a consequence of someone—probably a trickster spirit, dressed as a pirate—convincing you that his skills are top notch. A mixture of bourbon and hard solo in a plastic cup.
It tastes like a chemical burn.
You choke it down anyway.
You almost regret telling your plus one that you just need some air, at least if they were out here, then you’d have someone to complain to. It’s dangerous to be alone at this party. Anyone could sneak up and tap you on the shoulder, 'killing you’. Actually ... playing dead for the rest of the night doesn’t sound so bad actually. Perhaps you should seek out the killer amongst your friends. Perhaps you should just get up off the porch.
Why did I even come if I was just going to sit outside?
Do I even exist out here?
You know why. You’ll say it’s because you wanted to hang out with your friend, and whilst not untrue, it isn’t the full truth. You’re here to forget the impending hell that awaits on Monday morning. Although this party is doing a decent job distracting you, it is no match for the Olympic-level mental gymnastics going on in your mind, finding the worst future imaginable. Maybe going back inside will help? Maybe it won’t? You hope that someday in the future you’ll gain the courage to go back and join the noise, that one day you’ll submit to the sensation of drowning in a crowd. Sinking, sinking, sinking.
You’re sitting on a fallen log, taking a small break from your hike around your property. It’s the peak of summer. You thought it was a bright idea to get out of the stuffy house. Bad idea. The sun’s rays are beating down. On your property is a little section of forest with about nine or so rusted, beaten-down cars. The junkyard existed long before a great fire ripped through the land and long before your family moved in. It’s nice. Peaceful. Yours. You pace over to one of the cars and shift to sit on the hood, huddling into your knees as the heat prickles your exposed skin. This was where you and her did a photoshoot for one of your classes. You wonder if she still has the photos. You glance at the can of soda she left there years ago. It’s litter. Part of you is screaming to pick it up and be done with it, but every time you get close, you remember it’s the last part you have of your old friend. Part of you thinks it would’ve been easier if she had died instead of leaving without a word. Another part of you chastises that very thought, even though it is probably true. Rather than dealing with the infinite possibilities of how something could have gone right, you’ve always been better at dealing with the inevitable. You stare at the can again, beams of sunlight bouncing off the silver and meeting your eyes. A cluster of fluttering insects catch the light in their wings, static overwhelming.
You’re lying there, on your bed, staring up at the star-speckled ceiling. It’s nearing the end of summer, and your Bunnings fan has just given out on you. With thoughts of her filling your mind, you can’t sleep. Even if you could, you’re pretty sure you’d drown in your own sweat. Even if she was awake right now, she wouldn’t want to talk to you.
You know why.
For a brief moment, you feel as though you’re the only person in the world awake. The thought doesn’t comfort you as much as it used to. Looking up at the plastic stars above you, many of which have fallen off the ceiling due to the humidity. The few that remain create a constellation of their own. They are with you. The stars in your room don’t glow any brighter, nor do they get any dimmer. They don’t twinkle like the ones behind the cloud cover outside. You’re not sure when you’ll see the stars again. You’re not sure if you ever will. You fall asleep, dreaming of all the people you’ll never see again.
[INTERLUDE]: TODAY
We had this dream of drowning today.
There was no thrashing nor pain, one of the benefits of a fleeting dream.
It was quiet. Overwhelming absence permeated through us, our bodies, our minds.
Submerging, as The Collective became one.
We are trapped within ourselves.
A fortress of words threatening to overflow, to speak aloud the words that we desperately hold back.
Take us back to ourselves.
[Channel 2]: TOMORROW
I wonder if people at parties today or symposiums thousands of years ago felt this uncomfortable. Is this a universal thing?
The loud strum of a guitar brings me back to my senses.
I’m in the middle of a human ocean, tidal waves of sound starting to push and pull The Collective. Hands grasp upwards, towards their personal north stars, an invisible saviour with the power to pull them from the pit. Maybe that’s just what I’m hoping for, mimicking movements until I feel the same way everybody else does. If I look at anyone in the eye, their faces will morph into the people I’ve spent years avoiding. So, I look ahead through the clavicles of others, trying to drown out millions of conversations with the rumbling bass.
A light buzz comes from my pocket.
I ignore it.
It was infinitely easier when I went to these things drunk off my ass, willing to talk with every beautiful stranger, of which I’d forget the names of the next night. The backseat driver of terror would fall asleep and wake up with a hangover the next morning. The night progresses onwards, but The Collective doesn’t. As the world spins onwards, The Collective’s movements get looser, free in their skin. The hands grasping upwards start to sway in the non-existent breeze, a grove of limbs and bodies. I try to mimic their flowing movements, but everything is just too rigid. When they zig, I zag.
This is your night to live, damn it.
You won’t get another chance like this for a long time.
If there was one thing my younger self was good at, it was freaking myself out. But they are right; I came here alone because this way it’s easier to sink into The Collective. The Collective doesn’t ask why I don’t drink anymore. It doesn’t check to see if I’m feeling okay. It doesn’t ask anything of me. If I waste tonight, then for an eternity, I won’t have another chance to live. Tomorrow, I’m going back to my hoarder mother and peace-craving father. I will never quite escape, not fully. I will drown, restless and enraged at the life around me. Tonight, I choose to sink into something resembling flight.
An elbow flies into my ribs as the music picks up.
I ignore it.
My gaze drifts from the dizzying lights on the front stage and towards the corner where a couple is laughing, curled into each other. Two worlds merged into one, something so beautiful, something so crushing. My gaze then drifts to the next couple, and then a group of friends, and yet again, another couple. Thousands of worlds, within worlds, within worlds, within.
There is no collective for me to be a part of. The Collective asks nothing of me, it is not aware that I even exist. I am not consumed. I am not drowning. My terror leaves me in its blind spot. Will I ever take to the skies?
I claw at the collar of my shirt. Too hot. Too loud. Too many clothes. Too many people, none of them mine. The secondhand smoke is clinging to my throat as I beg the air for mercy. I can feel my makeup running, becoming a disheveled mess. The bravado is slipping. This is not where I am meant to be; everybody knows it. I turn from The Collective. No way out. A swarm of smiling faces in their own little groups, in their own little populated worlds.
Why can’t you be one of them?
I use the technique an old friend taught me and hunch down—barreling my way through the crowd. Can’t breathe. Can’t look up. Keep going. It feels like a worse version of those jungle gyms—instead of being buffeted by foam beams, I'm buffeted by the tangle of bodies. I clamber out of the pit and make my way to the ever-crowded bathrooms. I lean my back against the wall, gasping for air. The sticky tiles cling to my drenched shirt.
More collectives. Fixing their makeup or talking to each other or holding each other's hair or playing drunken compliment tennis. The lights are too bright; the voices are cacophonic.
I’ve always wondered what it felt like to drown. Not in a macabre way, but I want to know what it feels like to be so totally submerged in something that it swallows me, whole. Now I know, for future reference. Making it outside, I look up to the inky night sky. I think I can see the stars on my bedroom ceiling, conjured constellations leading me back home.
Another buzz comes from my pocket.
Another buzz.
Another buzz.
I pick up my phone, and the soft glow illuminates my face.
[L]: Hope you’re having fun tonight!
Send me the photos after :)
Maybe I do have my own collective?
Max Olin (they/them) is a writer with a love of poetry that often blends with other forms of writing. Max was born in California and raised in Victoria, Australia. They have a particular interest in exploring themes of disconnection through their writing.
Max can be found on Instagram @theregoesedenagain
Image credit:
Callum McGrath, What's after this? 2026, installation view. Commissioned by Australian Centre for Contemporary Art, Naarm/Melbourne. Courtesy the artist. Photograph: Andrew Curtis