Bag is mine

who packed me bags, i do like to do it myself. I fancy it new and colourful, a pretty package definitely; but my squashy nose, rash hair and constant twitch in the neck were all pre packed, DNAs and whatever else my parents bestowed on me. so large bones were packed in by the fish and calcium sandoz tablets mom fed me for 'strong bones'. the "more than we can actually afford" school was neatly folded in by dad. Even as i'd rather quetly acknowledge these, i blow my trumpets elsewhere. the belief systems, faith in a religion, in God, morals and ethics i believe i have, well, those too were packed by family, bags handed over by parents and parents of parents. parents of parents of parents. so, on reflection, the bags actually look older now, handed over genereation to next. yet, they are a handsom lot.yet these bags have in them a few things that none else packed in. me exist, oh those in the corner, experience, the happiness i chesish, the sadnes i keep packed up, those i packed. i need to repack and look again at what excess baggage i carry around, what hangs so heavy around my neck. pull out some of those more interesting things from somewhere within, to be able to listen to what happens around, to feel the rush again, to actually get high, to feel like first time this time too.