They’ve renewed your
favourite show for a
second season and you’re
super excited, scouring
the internet for theories
on who the puppet master
is, or if Jack will turn heel.
Will the werewolves attack
or will the time-travelling
merchants buy them off
with promises of brilliant
futures in alien worlds?
You’re a hypomanic mess,
unable to hold it in,
you post your review on FB,
a stanza written in feverish,
furious prose about how the show
transcends its supernatural
elements and portrays the
class struggle enveloped by
the hands of free-will
and determinism.
You’ll never know what
happens next, you conclude
and wait and hope for a comment
from a fellow-fan, another believer
on his knees, bringing his
tribute of milk and honey,
but someone else chimes in.
They shouldn’t have renewed it,
it would have served
well as a miniseries,
they say, and that plagues your mind.
So, to distract
yourself, you read the comics,
play cricket and go for walks,
you tune into some reality junk
and bit by bit, their opinion
and your solid recollection of
season 1 fades, the vampires
turning into blurry stone gargoyles,
the abject poverty
replaced by the middle class
neighbourhood you live in,
the aliens going back to their
planets, and time, linear,
inching forward and dragging
you with it.
Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash
Just a Writer 