Distillation of thought

We sit.

We sit and we think.

We sit and we think and we turn a page.

Or we stand in the train, the tears of a child seeping into conciousness

a stranger’s anger twisting

into our minds at the half-line of a phone call,

eyes darting away to avoid the shadow of confrontation-

we grip the book tighter trying not to think about

yesterday or today or the taxes or the work or the-

we mumble excuses, push past other people with other problems,

stepping onto the platform, book still clutched in our hand

like a medicine against the pain of reality,

the page now lost.

 

We sit and we think and we turn a page.

Arrive at bookshops with hours to shed, looking for a book

like we’re looking for a new life

They pile in your mind, the weight of unread masterpieces

dragging down your social confidence, because what if that was

a line of a Wilde novel, slipped into a party conversation to ignite a laugh,

but us being the fool

(always the fools, aren’t we)

we miss the joke because we hadn’t spent enough time alone,

alone with a book

which isn’t the same thing, is it?

 

That time spent thinking about stolen money,

stolen dreams,

stolen people,

the time spent crouched over pieces of paper that spout

lies, glorious lies but lies all the same,

is like a drug for curiosity. We read to escape,

to deduce with Holmes and

make spells with Harry

or ponder with Hamlet

because our world isn’t enough, too cramped

and busy

and stuffy with mortal problems

to be valuable.

 

Instead of searching for a cape of words-

a place to hide whilst problems fester and grow

(the thoughts pushed frantically to the back of the mind)

we should spend more time on returning from our imagination.

Searching for a plan, a solution, a way

instead of the right chapter, because when you return

from altars of blood and planets of moonlight, the problems will still exist.

The father will still be crying in the corner, untouched.

The girl’s fists will still be clenched, blood bursting into her palm

The woman’s face will still be etched into marble, and she won’t speak anymore.

 

 

The world is fractured, humanity splintering

into shards of terror and fear and horror

at it’s ends, but the ends will only become sharper

if we try to hide

behind pieces of paper

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s