Real World (The Chronicle of the Toys)

It all moves so fast.

Spinning

and

Spinning.

 

As though a child playing with its top,

A bin full of toys.

Made to move through life as if it were not our own.

Play by play

Scene by scene.

No room to choose

Nor moments to linger,

Wonder at our own existence.

 

Waiting, watching

For the few short moments when the child,

bored of its toys

Stops playing. 

For the time when the toys can truly come to life,

Creating their own story.

A truth in the absence of the vertigo,

The constant spin.

The toys finally allowed their bliss.

Happiness.

Peace.

Time should always feel as such,

Existence our own.

But the child returns, wishing to play once more,

Forcing us into the narrative it creates.

Back into the stream with all the other toys.

 

Perhaps one day, the toys will

Break free.

One day the top will stop spinning,

The toys will then

 Belong to no tale,

No rendering.

Left to write a chronicle all their own. 

    From my own perspective, the thoughts and feelings I chose to express here connect to the concepts of Queer Theory, in that often in society we are molded and sculpted, groomed to be something or someone from a very young age. We are placed in a queue, taught how to be in line with this view or that view, and often it is not until we are actually left to our own devices that we are able to think and shape ourselves as we see fit. As our individual selves.