Playfulness wasted / Wilfulness imposed

As a kid he used to like the idea of switching

between playful and serious:

that game you’d engage in when

adult you weren’t and engagement

wasn’t marriage – just a happy old state

which meant you were waiting on other young

souls who knew how to roll and rock

your imaginings and creativities

and broad

curiosities.

 

But now he was grown up, they just wanted to

suck him dry of his humanity and his

play and his way of switching between the worlds

that whirled on the one hand,

and on the other the worlds which turned quite sensibly on

axes, that smashed down on half-timbered

half-

remembered

lives.

 

He missed so the security of knowing he was right:

a year or more or God knows how long, or was it just

less and seemed so very wrong, and then

amazingly, hurtfully, he’d have to give in and admit

they were stronger than him.

 

But what they’d never extract from the bottom of

his heart, from the precipice of his

soul, from the edge and the abyss of this

never

ending

march, that controlled and demolished his love of

this life, and left him without lover or wife or

any other,

was any recognition they were right in their wilfulness;

and so were he to be forced to choose between their will or

his play, he’d

far rather choose his play – any day.

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