This piece below is still prompted by a line in the poem Starfish: Maybe there is nothing going on.
Maybe there is nothing going on. Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing except my imagination. Oh, I’ve always had imagination. When clouds flowed by in the sky, I could see shapes in them. I could conjure stories sometimes based on the cloud shapes. I loved stories. I devoured TV. Anything, not just cartoons. As a child, I had this hunger, to devour stories of any kind. But I thought in surprisingly black and white. No greys for me. No middle grounds. I knew what I didn’t want and I didn’t want these with determination. With stubbornness. With defiance. Still like that now.
Maybe there is nothing going on. Is there? Is there anything going on with my life? Well, I hope there is. Don’t you? If nothing is going on, what are you doing? How are you living? Are you living or are you just existing? Sometimes I think that’s just semantics. Sometimes I think no, the two two are distinct. Like the sun and the moon. Like day and night. Are they distinct or two sides of the same coin? There I go again, I have a philosophical streak if you can’t tell already.
Maybe there is nothing going on. Nothing going on. Nothing going on. Nothing going on. Wow, now you think I’m hiding something, don’t you? Am I? Now, I’m just being coy. Raising an eyebrow and saying, well? Now you tell what you think of that. What you think of me. Go on. Judge me. I give you full permission to. You know you want to.
Typing this up and inadvertently re-reading this now, I only realised the end of this piece was quite passive aggressive. And the start of the third paragraph, that was just my mind going blank for a second and perhaps the frustration of that permeated the piece thereafter? Anyway, that’s the original raw piece. I did trim the first paragraph because that was basically from my WIP but the rest was all me or my subconscious mind.