Before our births, void of choice, we became part of the story,
During our lives, with a choice, we can't escape the story,
After death, abandoned choice, the story continues to seep.
- Andrew Mansell

Inflicted Imagination

Photo by Allyson

I used to believe in Father Christmas
until mum left my present under her bed.
I used to believe in the Easter Bunny
until I saw dad hiding chocolate eggs in the garden.
I used to believe in the tooth fairy
until I found my tooth in the bin.
I used to believe in magic
until Grandpa dropped the coin that had just disappeared.
I used to believe in UFOs
until a farmer was caught mowing rings.
I used to believe in ghosts
until they all became familiar.
I used to believe in God
until I found out there was more than one.
I used to believe in peace
until I repeatedly witnessed hypocrisy.
I used to believe my children would be different
but I just helped place a stamp on a letter to Father Christmas.

Andrew Mansell, December 2010.

I was thinking about a young boy living somewhere in the wilderness. His life revolved around helping his family survive. He had no books, television or access to the internet. I wondered what he would dream about. Would he have nightmares? Would his family pass down spoken stories? I’m left to ponder an imagination with no infliction.


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