"Time is the fire in which we burn." Star Trek 7 - Generations
It's painful turning the pages of my journals,
seeing what I was,
painful reading about the hurt
that went on forever, years,
till I thought it would never stop.
I explored options:
ropes in ceilings, push away the chair,
what chemist would give me sleeping pills?
Would I ever get out of this?
There was no-one to ask.
No government agency I could approach
with my ID number or date of birth
or student card,
asking the question.
I wrote about it in those journals,
pages and pages at night,
when the moths tapped against the
flyscreens, trying to get at the lights.
I stared at the darkness outside,
my pen scratching through the
silence of our 1903 Norwood house,
making worlds and friends and colours
on the papers.
Through my dry analysis trying to
discover the reason why
there was no-one else around.
I read bits and pieces of these journals,
I get nauseous. The old memories and
stuff come hurling up through the different covers.
But it goes on living in my head,
growing new roots, new twigs.
The past doesn't die, can't die,
it's the fire in which we burn.
(Published in The fire in which we burn)