Being Peter

Being Peter

Masticating what seemed to be a chewy “ewwwy” tendon of gristle, Peter scowled askance. He commenced penning his rhapsody out for English class. Cleaved to the instrument, Peter swiftly escorted it through trials of wavering undulation. He unwillingly swallowed the tyrannous gristle with a fresh dollop of bonnyclabber.
-My poem is coming along quite nicely now, yes, quite. A beautiful epic about metempsychosis through transmigration of a cygnet. Young swan. Young lady. Yes with perking bosoms.
Peter’s incontinence was overwhelming being a boy of his age, natural, essential, yet ironically halting his personal progress. Distractions. Train of thought. Same old same old.
-Now, now, where was I? My imperturbable manner seems to be tad askew tonight. Procrastination is it? Reincarnation, dualism. Ah yes transmigration. Though once in the eyes of the swan the soul will clamber towards the road only to be stricken down by a conquesting cavalcade of carriages. They build the roads, road kill in loads. Human domination over nature. Dominaturism. Failure to communicate inhibiting empathy between beings. Death to the mother of mothers? How rude. hrmm a little crude and unstructured. But Mrs. Muir is usually quite discerning. When is it I’m playing at the school? Fiddle me this? Ah yes next Tuesday.
He covetously grabbed his fiddle and bow and began to recite an Irish melody in tribute of the legend of young Cu Chulainn, how his eyes were dark and his expression sullen.
- Ah grand legend that one is a true rhapsody.
“By Blarney Stone!” He yelped. Gingerly Peter placed his fiddle back to its recumbent beginnings.
- What must a lad do to stay focussed. Pharmaceuticals?
He peered to his paper.
-Ah yes but the soul will transmigrate once again! To keep it true beaut the theme will be of the revolution of life. A repeated pattern by which one dies and comes to be in another form. As if by being delivered with so much agony and hardship as death, beautiful life is rewarded once again in equal proportion. Complete spectrum. Revolving. If the planets do it why can’t we? Holistic Consistency. That’s what I need to keep these wavering thoughts on a leash.
Finishing his poem Peter blew out the last flickering flame in the house. That night he lied awake for hours haunted by his collective, conscious, and ever so caring thoughts. Such is life, being, segue, aware.