Almost every decent thing I’ve written started with a doodle
Evil stick men at war, throwing spears at a poorly-drawn chimaera,
Who is protecting some unknown secret or treasure which is conveniently off the page.
The chimaera – did I mention it is also a robot? – remembers
that it can breathe fire, and spears that once tore through it bounce off
its mechanical limbs, and soon the men and all they covet is on fire
My doodles always catch fire.
Then I remember – some letter must be written, some work performed
for what is apparently the work of grownups – drafting constitutions and
consulting with non-profits, the work of an alleged young professional,
work which is all too devoid of robotic chimaeras and their spear-hurtling opponents.
I crumple the doodle, and miss the trashcan as usual, and get back to my humorless
war, whose spears come in reams of paperwork and unanswered emails.
Still, I laugh. Maybe one day, the world will see I’m a chimaera.
And a robot.
Photo by Sepa Sama.