The Solar System, Van Gogh and Headlights.               a short play by anni cameron


Amelia: A noise plays from my side –
But I still sleep, I still dream.
It takes me a moment to realise
That it sounds in reality.

I don’t want to wake.

I can toy with consciousness, and
My duvet can tease me.
I don’t want to wake.
I can linger in a fantasy, and
My pillow can tempt me.
I don’t want to wake –
But I must.

Jay: Each and every morning,
I raise my eyes to the sky. And,
For whichever reason, I can’t help but think:
Isn’t the sun incredible?
It rises daily, without exception.
We should learn from the sun.

Amelia: My head rises,
Though I wish it wouldn’t.
My eyes open,
But they long to close.
How long did I sleep?
Minutes or hours?

Elizabeth: Here, we begin again.
I must meet with the lawyer in an hour.
Amelia will refuse to attend school, again.
And I won’t argue – I am done arguing,
And I need my daughter. She cannot hate me.
Because, if she does, what am I left with?
A failed marriage. Hatred from my one creation?

Everything I used to know is crumbling
Like old clay. But, I spent so much time moulding
The perfect sculpture. Now, the clay is a mess,
Sprawled upon a pottery wheel which spins too fast.
Too fast. Too fast. Stop.

Amelia: The sun meets my window
As daylight graces me with its presence.
My duvet is the roof to my mattress
And it beckons me to linger in its attic.

September 4th, a question awaits:
Do I, or don’t I?

But you’ll see, it depends,
It depends on only one thing.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Are the size of my flaws,
Big or small?

Jay: I try to understand her – each day is an
Investigation into her mind, her thoughts.
I think I can make sense of why she hates school.
There is this elephant in the room, this question:
“Do you think you’re happy?”
We realise that a good life relies upon happiness,
This illusive concept of peace of mind.
Euphoria is what we are all in pursuit of,
But it is more of a witch hunt.

I am lucky. I am happy. I am the optimist.

However, my dear friend is the pessimist.
It is engraved deeply into her bones, and it is
The oxygen that flows through her brain.
We are not of the same blood type,
We are two different types of paint.
These are things that refuse to change.

Amelia: The glass acknowledges me, yet
My reflection insults me.
There’s a new flaw on my face,
And there is only so much
The Artist can cover in paint.
And yet, I am no masterpiece –
The Louvre wouldn’t display
A face Van Gogh
Would refuse to portray.

Real art is true
True art is real –
I think I am somewhere inbetween.
A white lie.
A dressed up version of the truth.
I am not art.

Elizabeth: James stops by, like he does every morning,
And it takes some strength to send him away,
Again. I breathe some excuse on Amelia’s behalf.
She won’t be attending school, she has a migraine.
I know that the divorce is taking its toll on her,
On me, and her father too – though, he refuses
To acknowledge any emotions that come with separation.

He is a man too full of pride – or, at least, he was.

It is difficult to tell. He has not seen I, nor has he
His daughter. It has been six months.

How can I watch my once sparkling daughter,
Become something more dull?

I am guilty for refusing blame, but John
Supplies me with more excuses than I need.

John: I am the big bad wolf of fathers.
Ungrateful. Selfish. Unkind.
I was never an Artist, unlike the women in my life.
They understand delicacy and softness.
I am harsh, and can’t handle fragility.
I push those in my life to breaking point –
The personification of a supernova.
Exploding – shedding light on every possible flaw,
Leaving only swirls of debris in my wake.

Amelia: I am coaxed into slumber:
A gentle tide swallows up my consciousness,
And relief washes over me like a wave.
I find comfort in sleep, like how
Van Gogh found comfort in the colour yellow.
But, a boat cannot stay in the middle
Of the ocean forever. The sailor
Must reach shore, or risk becoming
Another shipwreck.

I cannot sleep forever.
It takes my every strength to admit,
And I don’t want to be weak anymore.

Jay: We are surrounded by purple flowers,
And I am glad that she is breathing fresh air.

I had almost forgotten
How she looks with the sun behind her back.

She has opened the door to her mind,
To her thoughts and to her feelings,
For me, and maybe only me.

This is how I understand her,
Subtly and gently –
I understand her inner loneliness, and
How she feels insignificant.
I have noticed how her expression changes
When she sees a man of forty-something,
Because, no matter how much she dislikes her father,
She craves his acceptance,
And wishes to see him once more.

I think this is the true reason for her insecurity.
If an Artist cannot find beauty in his own painting,
The painting wouldn’t care
That it had admirers in galleries all over the world,
For its creator was not the one to display it
Above the mantelpiece.
An art dealer found value in the signature inked in the corner,
Not in the way the paint was layered –

The artist is dead now.
The painting ceases to care about where it stands.

Amelia: As the sky becomes more obsidian,
The universe reveals something to us,
Something that feels like a secret.
I notice that Jay has a different presence
When he is below the stars,
A presence I’m sure I’ve never witnessed before.


I feel like you see something in the stars
That I don’t, Jay.

Jay: I think you need to have some appreciation
For the world you live in, Ame.

Amelia: How can you see such beauty in the stars,
When they are merely burning gas?
They will cease to burn one day, you know.

Jay: Isn’t that the wonder of it?
Don’t you think that the stars are a metaphor for people?

We depart with unspoken thoughts,
That are sure to be shared one day.
I think that this world has so much to offer –
Is that not why we reside here,
Instead of Mars?

There is wonder in untruths and in secrets,
And I am happy. I see euphoria behind the clouds,
It just takes a little extra concentration to make it out.

The sky is enough to distract me from the ground.

I see stars.
I see headlights.



Amelia: Jay, flowers grow where we last spoke,
And I still don’t feel like I understand the stars.
I have found comfort in new things, since your passing,
Things that are closer to home.
I understand why Van Gogh painted sunflowers,
Yellow is a hopeful colour.

Jay, I visit the place where we last spoke,
Every single night.
The grass is a soft green pillow,
Much more comforting than the snowy fabric
In my bedroom. I understand flowers,
The other night I concluded that
They are Earth’s stars – so maybe I understand
Heavenly bodies better than I first thought.

Jay, my parents went through with their divorce,
And I’m beginning to accept
That I don’t need validation from any other
To complete me. I have begun to see
That I am part of a bigger picture, which cannot fully
Be seen from my bedroom. I may only be one
Star to a constellation, but without that one star,
You have an incomplete cluster.

Jay, I am starting to become the optimist.
Without you, it is an empty position, but it is
A valued one. A world without your optimism,
Is like our universe without the sun.
We survive on its light, and its presence –
It rises daily, without exception.
We should learn from the sun.