Unstoppably spinning till the seats are empty, the whirlwind of our minds merry-go-rounds and swirls, like giant teacups at the fair, clutching at the sides in case the hot drink goes splashing over the edges. Half the time we are screaming in fun, and the rest, desperate to disembark, like sailors with no faith in the prophesied arrival of sealegs.
And suppose we got our wish, and the machinery ground to a stuttering halt, cogs clanking to a surprised standstill? Would we sit, contentedly, waiting for the inevitability of rust, or would we find ourselves restless and stretching, out of sorts with the motionless existence, like a moonless tide? And if the planet followed suit and was released from its perpetual movement, the godchild we imagine in our smallness bored of its toy and forgetful in spinning of our celestial axis, wouldn’t we then find ourselves flung into space, back seat drivers without the seatbelt of gravity or faith, realising for all our grumbling and protesting that we were created to go around and around and around again?
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015