Things I Don’t Do Anymore

I used to be constantly on the go,

whether cycling or by train.

Rushing, with too much to do,

eagerly moving towards the future.

All night long, I listened to the radio,

returning the next evening after a brief sleep.

I revelled in the freedom of inner release,

but nowadays, it feels different.

Things are stuck, stagnant.

Occasionally, they emit a foul odour.

Spraying perfume won't mask it.

Washing clothes to cleanse the spirit -

a simple act that soothes the mind,

but deeper purification lies ahead

for those who aim for higher ground,

where inner hurts find their release

expressed in stories, woven into plots.

In a new reality, of course

awaiting still, a life yet to be lived.

My belly bulges,

growling with impatience, pawing the ground,

like a terribly wayward child,

whose parents, reluctant to admit,

they can't cope,

abandon it to fend for itself.

And then, problems arise from within,

left unaddressed.

They converge and coil

into another entity, one

which, despite not doing the usual things,

creates memories sunk in an unknown dimension,

recognizable only after a theory -

vested and appreciated,

yet not by anyone who was supposed to be interested.

Gramophone spun and skipped records, vital lessons.