This week I will be doing a series of reflections on both my experience at Auschwitz and things that it prompted me to explore further.
Tattered, torn, yellowing, creased,
The signs of a truly loved book.
Twisting thoughts and flowing words.
Bonds inescapable, mind furled.
Bound to the chair, lost to the world.
Friends, lovers, family, kin,
Enemies and haters with you till the end,
Till the very last page and that very last word.
A wish, a hope to see what’s next.
Yet always a dread, dread of the close.
For it to be over,
Never to begin again.
Names flowing though your mind,
Questions that go unanswered.
Fake all of them and yet more real somehow.
It’s a skill, an art, to bind the mind just now.
It’s a blessing, a gift, to read that script,
That has you gripped.
To lose yourself in another world.
Fiction isn’t as good as non-fiction, right? It doesn’t contain any true facts, is entirely made up and most importantly it doesn’t teach you anything. If this is your point of view then I must inform you that I am unable to agree and if you are shaking your head and arguing, well let us just say that we are in agreement.