The Boy Who Lost His Name

I sat at the weekend before some cards and presents from former and current students. The phrase ‘brilliant teacher’ was used. There was one present that was a personalised picture book entitled The Boy Who Lost His Name which focused my attention. Several years have passed since I originally ‘burnt-out’ and now I seem to be finally through it. I have lost an awful lot, discarded more, and discovered alternatives to the once unquestioned route to success. 

I am now a ‘me’ that I possibly always wanted to be. I am anti-authoritarian, self-directed, creative and filled with wanderlust. I hate doing the same thing over and over again and this may go some way to explain why I move from job to job so frequently. My thinking is that this one life that we get has got to push out the sides of the envelope that it arrives in. Don’t mistake this for a bucket-list, I have no time for listing things down or thinking up ingredients for a perfect smorgasbord. My life is a ‘less trodden’ path with glimpses of wonders along the way.

A lot of people who have experienced what I have talk about the fact that they don’t plan anything anymore. They live in the present, the ‘now’, the endpoint of the past. 

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So, the past is back there and it is fixed. I can’t move yet it keeps on growing and surely growth is movement so the past is on the move and it’s creeping towards us day by day, moment by moment. It is our shadow that is cast by the light of the sun, but the sun changes direction and the shadow can follow us, walk along side of us, or stride out ahead. I get lost in time when I think about what it could be.

At the moment, I am sitting here with time at my side. Clouds are obscuring the sun and little of my shadow can be seen. The little that is visible is hiding under my shoe and I can ensnare it by pushing my sole down to the carpet on which it rests. Perhaps time comes from me and not from the light of the sun. Perhaps we are part of the same block. Perhaps it is just a fancy that is being enjoyed at my expense. And perhaps time doesn’t march forever onwards, but merely drips and collects and coagulates.

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