Walking corridors on hollow legs.  A person’s touch passes through me and falls away.  Their face falls away.  No connection, no friction, no worries either.  A smile, a gracious nod, a flick of the eyebrow, and they are convinced that everything is fine.  Everything is fine.  Keep the mind private.  Keep the thunder rumbling.  Leave them to the drizzle and the cloud.  I like the thunder.  I didn’t always.

I once sheltered from a storm inside a half buried concrete war box.  The earth thrashed under my feet like a slumbering grand mal.  I covered my ears, as rainwater poured in through slits of light.  I can’t remember the last time I felt so scared.  I can’t remember the last time I thought I could die.  I can’t remember ever feeling so alive.

Stepping through a portal, four walls glow and embrace me.  A bannister holds out a beam, beckoning me upstairs.  A bookcase leans forward and offers a tome.  In my little cathedral, the sermon declares a unilateral end to emptiness and insignificance.  The spirit soars, the skin falls, and the corners fill with memory like a balloon fills with air.

I look down at blank sheets of paper and a pen, and realise masterpieces of literature started this way.  I put a guitar in my lap and realise, masterpieces of music started here.  Just using these simple tools, in my hands.  And although I will never reach the gods, I can at least see them, far above me.




Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: