Flux

In the rear view mirror I see myself asleep in the back,
the road trailing out behind me like the future in reverse,
littered with all the stuff I'm going to do.
The stuff I did this morning closest.
My final days just there on the horizon.
The rest of my days in between.

Ahead there's all I've ever done
and I'm condemned to relive it,
revisit each indiscretion,
mistake and
act of villainy.
A few moments of joy.

And the car I'm driving is the inside of my head.
The windscreen is my eyes.
The one asleep in the back, receding, is me as a child.
Or my child.
I forget which.
And the road is time unravelling.
A ribbon in the wind.
Blowing this way
and that.