Sometimes, living is a celluloid loop,
a three minute picture show shown
on the back of your eyeballs. The
textures of the scenes burned into
the memory. The same cruel lips,
caresses, stinging words, slamming
doors. Then the epilogue filled with
joy, smiles, Elysian fields, gentle
breezes, new age music. The projectionist
is a sleep, snoring slack mouthed,
cradling an empty bottle of scotch.
The movie goer doesn’t care, they
are there waiting for life’s
sad repetition to start over.
We paid good money for the show
didn’t we?
Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour
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