Cyclical Thoughts

I picture the inside of my brain. Uncooked pink bobbly sausages piled into my head. I can imagine it sounds sort of fleshy-cavernous; echoey like the shout from inside Moby Dick. These tunnels of nothing but muscly mass weaving around the space inside my thick skull and thin skin are faulty. I plant an idea that rattles to a halt, no more use than the fingertip-sized plastic spinning top from last year's Christmas cracker. I have to keep having ideas. I have to sow even just these small dry seeds. Memories though, they're abundant, if unsympathetically filed. Today, the easiest to reach are flashbacks to failed careers and next, the fattening bad parent folder. And so to counter the bleak deluge, I twist another idea into the fleshy warren. Cyclonic enthusiasm. Cyclical. Fading. To a. Stop.
Claire Allen
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