The Size of The Moon

What would you do if you could fly?

I would sit on a cloud and exclaim “Oh my!”

I would watch tiny cities and simply try

To understand our insignificance.

“How could we worry?” I would probably wonder,

“We’re so tiny compared to the sky we’re under.

We fear bills and future but not lightning and thunder

And it’s so much bigger than we are.”

I would fly over oceans, looking for whales

Who would tell me the ocean is filled with the tales

Of trivial things if measured on our scales

But in truth are all that matter.

After returning home from my adventure of flight

I would land back at my desk and try as I might

I would not understand how I could have lost sight

Of the importance of the state of humanity

Because I would know that we’re small

That in the grand scheme we mean nothing at all

To the sky, the clouds or the whale off the shore

But that wouldn’t quite soothe the thought

That to me, I’m quite big, my problems are too

And they are not solved by the size of the moon

I’m not interested in the thoughts of Albert Camus

When he said that we’re all insignificant.

Just a Thought

Thought sat in the dimly lit interrogation room of the Mind, slumped over the stark wooden table feeling dejected and exhausted.

“I’m just tired,” she moaned into her hands, “and I want to go to sleep and never wake up again because I am not strong enough for the world.”

Thought closed her eyes, addressing the inside of her eyelids.

“I feel as if I should be feeling more, but I am simply too tired to feel. I am looking at the world through a grimy window that needs a good scrub and I have no means of cleaning it. On the other side of the window, everyone is living unapologetically. They’re laughing and crying and eating and loving and falling in love and falling out of love and listening to music and watching films and experiencing art in a way that makes you feel the art and I’m desperately trying to open the window but I can’t. And I’m starting to believe that I’m never going to.”

Thought opened her eyes and sat back in the hardwood chair leaning her head as far back as she could so that she was looking at the ceiling. It was grey and cracking in places. A naked bulb hung from it, casting a weak, grey light onto Thought, who found it appropriate that Mind’s interrogation room should feel so small and constricting.

“You know what it feels like? It feels like the rest of the world has figured out how to use the technology that was designed to make everything Technicolor and my world is still monochromatic. Except I don’t have that jazzy backing track that the old non-speaking films used to have. My backing track sounds like a radio that has hasn’t been tuned properly. My world does not make a very good film. Maybe a one star rating on IMDb. And I know I’ve mixed my metaphors. You can add that to the ever-increasing list of things I don’t care about.”

For the first time, Thought looked at her companion who leant towards a microphone fixed onto the table.

Speech looked at Thought with pity and spoke, her words echoing around the room.

“I’m doing alright, thanks. Just a bit tired.”

The Planet Behind The Sun (1)

Malorie sat amongst frantic leaves

in the topmost branches of the bottlebrush tree

and she hoped there would be bottlebrush trees

on the planet behind the sun.

Malorie’s planet (behind the sun)

 has never been seen since the dawn of time

because it is always exactly opposite earth

and Malorie wants to go there.

She believes her planet is just like our own,

but the planet has a disease that was planted and grown:

the people are sick with compassion.