Epidode 115 'The Boy who made Lists'

The Boy Who Made Lists 

 

The boy who made lists was at his desk, pondering,  

Gazing out of the window, where his mind would go wandering.  

And wondering of new wonders this next list might bring, 

A list full of ponderment, would be a wonderful thing. 

 

The boy he felt eager but with a hint of frustration,   

For his mind kept on wandering without thought or formation. 

The tasks they kept mounting, amounting to nought,  

The list needed listing, the ponderment be caught! 

 

The boy took his pen, plucked up courage and then started, 

Lay ink to the paper and simply could not be parted. 

Item one; ah! the groceries. This was always a winner, 

To gather some vegetables for a good hearty dinner. 

 

The boy scribbled madly as he continued the list,  

Item two was a haircut that couldn’t be missed.  

A bus into town for some lovely new socks, 

Then call Aunty Val and say how she rocks! 

 

The boy felt achievement, the list gave him purpose 

A purposeful giggle did rise to the surface. 

He giggled and chuckled as the list grew some more, 

Cheerfully making lists that would fall upon the floor. 

 

The boy paused a moment and calmed himself down, 

‘Could this list be completed?’ he uttered with a frown. 

From the top to the bottom, he scrolled through the page, 

Breathing and sweating like a man thrice his age.  

 

The boy sharpened his pencil and sharpened his mind,  

Mindful of new deeds that he so needed to find.  

His pencil was itching and scratching and yearning, 

His heart; it was thumping and pounding and burning. 

 

The boy knew the items would soon be completed,  

The list would be useless, and he would feel cheated. 

For what happens then? When achievement is fleeting? 

The feat of this feeling was surely misleading.

The boy thought of items he could add to the list 

‘Quickly!’ cried he with a shake of his fist. 

Item eleven; could be a good catch-up with Drew, 

But Drew was in Frankfurt, so that will never do! 

 

The boy felt a panic and sweat on his cheek,  

How can he operate with no list of the week? 

Item eleven; he looked frantic and gazed around the room. 

Do the laundry AGAIN? Or should I buy a new broom? 

 

The boy grew impatient and desperate and sad, 

These conflicting emotions were driving him mad. 

He began listing things, that nobody listed, 

And listened to nothing but the sounds of his instinct.  

 

The boy tore the paper with pencil and fury, 

Without even thinking he wrote prematurely.  

A top ten of crayons he’d used only once, 

And listing the Pokémon that nobody wants. 

 

The boy listed places and dreams within dreams,  

A jigsaw of passion just caught at the seams. 

It seems he was grasping; his mind wasn't asking, 

The correct set of questions to ease all the gasping. 

 

The boy he was blinded without finding the answer, 

The list making process he struggled to master. 

Consuming his mind writing line after line,  

The planning, the focus; it took so much time! 

 

The boy lost his purpose, and couldn’t remember, 

Why list making business was something to savour. 

The time he was wasting, when he could be tasting, 

A little embracing, not copy and pasting. 

 

The boy who made lists, he was feeling such failure,  

A failure of love and it caused him to waver.  

He wavered and faltered, the fault felt insulting,  

Because of indulgence of misplaced exulting.

The boy needed structure and focus, it’s true, 

Though, something was missing, but what, where and who? 

The list was his ally but had driven him mad, 

Surrounded by burdens he never knew he had. 

The boy dropped his pen, lost his courage and then ended, 

This list was not listing, simply couldn’t be mended.  

This treacherous notion was already in motion,  

Lay his head on the desktop in a wastepaper ocean.  

 

 

But then... 

 

 

The boy heard a chorus of birds over yonder, 

His tear-stricken cheeks were all rosy with wonder. 

Sunlight cascaded and shimmered around him,  

It glistened and glimmered to slowly surround him.  

 

The boy who made lists blinked a moment and wished,  

That this moment would linger with no utterly twist.  

For utterly spent, were his thoughts about lists, 

So pointless and irksome and hard on the wrist.  

  

The boy began thinking of things that he’d miss, 

If life had the answer based on making these lists. 

His heart it was big and so full of compassion,  

This passion completely controlled all his actions. 

 

The boy who made lists stood there feeling forlorn,  

Did gaze round his room, paper thick upon the floor 

His bittersweet mind, oh so desperate to find,  

The courage he so needed to finally unwind. 

The boy and his window did gaze at each other,  

Reflecting the beauty of springtime come summer.  

‘I now know the answer’ he smiled with assurance, 

And surely the answer was smiling before us.  

 

The boy was a dreamer; he dreamt all the time, 

Creating escapism, stories and rhyme. 

The list was a constant and daily reminder, 

Of everyday problems and chores to decipher. 

 

The boy closed his eyes and transported his mind, 

Imagining quests and adventures to find.   

For these were the things he did want in the moment,  

Pick one, take your time, for this is bestowment.  

 

The boy dreamt of fiction and novelty places, 

Of islands depicting a gorgeous oasis.  

He longed for a bubble where he could feel safe,  

A sanctuary waiting for him to create. 

 

The boy who made lists, he was also a writer, 

A painter, a maker, a sculptor, a scriber.  

A carpenter, poet (thought you wouldn’t quite know it), 

A big storyteller who was longing to show it.  

 

The boy needed time, far away from his lists, 

To channel emotion, to motion his wits. 

Leaving reality, so this was his goal. 

The bubble, the island, he wanted them all.  

 

The boy felt a breeze and a warmth on his face,  

He opened his eyes to a wonderous new place. 

A place full of wonder, that opened before him,  

He pondered no more, for the dream had adorned him. 

 

The boy who made lists felt the tears in his eyes,  

And made a decision that took his surprise. 

I’ll stop making lists, he whispered to no one,  

And no one replied, "what a wonderful notion."

 

The boy felt a sense of incredible freedom,  

His dreams he could follow, ‘cus now he could see them. 

The fire that had lingered and dwelt there inside him,  

Was growing and flowing, so ready to find him. 

 

The boy’s bedroom window was beginning to open,  

The sunlight poured in with a chorus of hoping. 

The hoping of something so certainly pleasing, 

Astonishing beauty with every good feeling. 

 

The boy grabbed his brushes and paper and pens, 

Stuffed them into his satchel, along with some friends.

He took a deep breath, and he took a step forward,  

But something was missing and something was awkward.  

 

The boy stopped a moment and turned back around,  

Picked up some scrap paper from the carpeted ground. 

One final list, the boy thought with a grin, 

And smiling with wonder, the list did begin. 

 

The boy wrote a list for the very last time, 

A lasting reminder that he will be fine. 

It wasn’t a big list or full of confusion,   

A poignant and humbling finale conclusion. 

 

The boy placed the list on his old, battered table,  

And facing the window, he knew he was able. 

Excitement was brewing, and through him he felt it, 

The dream was in reach, and his bedroom it melted.  

 

The boy had defeated his solitary limbo,  

And leaving his bedroom he jumped out the window. 

Enlightened, the boy felt a new sense of purpose, 

That giggled and chuckled and rose to the surface. 

 

The boy who made lists, yes, that once was his name, 

Of list making glory and fortune and fame. 

But let’s call him by something a little more pure, 

For the boy was a dreamer, the boy, nothing more. 

By Thomas Philip Grainger

Not Meta

Not AI

Not ChatGBT

#longliveHayaoMiyazaki