In the middle

In the middle of the story, when our hero is alone and helpless, not knowing how he got so very far from home, and how he will ever get, and it seems like only yesterday that, and if only there was some way to, and maybe she is already dead now, or locked up under the city somewhere, oh the evil somebody or other, how could they believe that imposter, when the pages have got dark and nothing is settled and we are as it were floating on an ocean of incertitude, with our former possessions drifting around us, our books and comic albums and clothes and bed sheets and pillows and plants and notebooks and writing equipment and furniture and kitchen ware and pieces of paper and postcards and loudspeakers and concert tickets and indefinite plastic objects we didn’t know we possessed nor what they were for, the piano falling apart, several Am chords on the loose and out of tune, our hopes and dreams soaking up the salty water, and the stars cold and indifferent above, during that eternal moment we are happiest, and the story might as well end there only then it wouldn’t be the middle.

© 2009–2023, Martijn Wallage