The real, reel of reality
Is played out or lived out, in the mind.
It is the ever watchful
Minds Eye which informs The Self.
It is Self which encounters the world,
The greater part of which is mined
In order to bring order
To the worms and chaos of life.
What is it then to have contentment
Stripped bodily from your Cellular walls,
In a rude awakening to your existence,
Your sound and shape and thought?
Was it not so throughout adolescence,
That callous transition period,
Of Girl to woman, Boy to man?
It was a time through which we all advanced.
All of us with the same blind beggared stumblings.
We had to be, somehow, re hatched,
Then floundering and at the same time headstrong,
Ease ourselves towards a sub caste limbo.
Where being neither child or adult,
We fumbled and argued and flounced
Our way through the rebellious senseless and utterly ridiculous years of being a changeling.
Those months which swept away the majority
Of childhood years.
Leaving only those limpet emotions,
With which to haunt and make restless the future.
In the sporadic episodes of nostalgia,
The “when we used to. . .” and the fermented
Moments of reminiscence.
The re run of parts of past life,
Lived out in blissful ignorwnce.
All else is lost,
Of childish ways and childhood days.
And so on it goes,
On we go,
Then we are gone,
And the only sounds are,
The running of the sprockets of time,
And the rhythmic catching of a
Flapping loose end of life,
As the now full take up reel revolves,
In the projector room
Of the picture house of the universe.
C 2018 Christopher Thompson
all rights reserved
26th December 2018 – Cannock England