Pitter patter. Patter pitter. Pitter patter.
Mice and other such nocturnal creatures.
Patter pitter. Pitter patter.
Along the garden wall. Drenched from rain. Warm summer rain that sprays everything wet, varnishes the dusty tarmac and the fired bricks under their claws.
Pitter patter. Pitter patter.
Who would think this scene would ever change?
Have you ever lived your life as if you were a papier mache balloon? Like when the kids get to paste wallpaper pasted newspaper patches onto an inflated balloon? And the patches dry ready for another layer, until the papier mache structure is solid and the original supporting balloon can be popped.
Voila! The toughened paper balloon is usually painted and varnished. This makes it pretty tough.
There are people alive whose old newspapers have never been seen, they have kept their scandal and secrets hidden. The shredded sheets and patches of the person they were, the person they despised, (and maybe still do), are disguised in their favourite, awkward designs of denial.
Their paper balloons. Their designer balloons. Their rock solid varnished and petrified balloons.
The colour intact. The design intact. The varnish intact. The balloon intact and all their words hidden and their truth untold.
I’m not saying it’s wrong. Holding it all in, wearing a permanent girdle, keeping the excess flesh from rolling and wobbling distastefuly around the living room, the office, the home improvement store.
Terrified. Petrified of the ugly skin being revealed.
Terrified. Petrified of the true story being read.
What is your inner super hero wearing under his/her cape? Do those gold, silver, red pants cut in and squeeze the super hero in you? The one that keeps it all together?
I believe you have been the super hero/ super heroine of your life, (and everybody elses) for too long now. It’s time to retire.
Let it all hang, droop, decompose, fade, and weather in the way it is supposed to over time.
Some super heroes forget to retire, forget to move on and let somebody else do the job. Some don’t realise they don’t look good anymore in that particular outfit. I’ll tell you. I’ll break the news. You don’t look like Linda Carter anymore. Infact, you never did.
You are forgiven for your error of judgement in the same way we all are forgiven for believing superheroes are immortal. All available logic negates this, yet people still believe.
Do some die out with poor TV ratings?
Are some too miscellaneous for us to care?
What a terrible fail in life that must be. The quiet inconsequential super hero saves the day again and nobody noticed. Best not have that printed on the papier mache newspaper of your life.
(Everybody has to matter to somebody).
How many do the decent thing?
The ones who back down and back out from all those ugly scrapes and gutteral exclamation bubbles.
The ones who understand all that gratuitous Kerpowing and Biffing and Thwacking of oneself and or the evil supervillain, it does not get any easier in those now unbearably tight gold, silver or red superhero pants. Those pants are fraying and they too want to retire, or make some dramatic exit, as did Metro Man in Megamind. He faked his own super hero death to get out of the superhero rat trap.
There is comfort in a softly ticking clock. A reassuring tock of time passing and I think of the lily pond where once upon a time I hid all the treasure. That lily pond inside of me where I sunk all my weighty disappointments. I was not to know lily ponds are where lilies grow. I was not to know….