The betrayal of eventfulness

I got caught up in it.

‘Eventfulness’ made me

into a series of self-Polaroid’s.

I now pander memories

of myself to others as me.

I inadvertently wound up

as a poser.

I made myself

historically image lasting.

I became

a fifteen-minute impression

on others

and they stuck me with it,

now I am my handle.

I am a sort of billboard

to others as a drive by.

I am at the will-call

of their memory

when we meet.

People kindly refer to me,

even in my presence.

I am a constant reminder

of something from the past.

My current self

has a closet life

amongst strangers.

Others have me frozen

into a timeline of recall.

The weight of their memory of me

is my burden.

I am the exile of notoriety

when entering the room.

I am commonly famous

in a small way.

I have been betrayed

by their take on events in my life.

Their version of me

is an open book,

so they say.

I am an animated still life

always coming into frame.

You can look me up

and not know who I really am.

It is a form of identity theft,

for stealing my aliveness.

I am a compromise away

always from this moment.

A slow suicide

by celebrity status is implied.

I am an untouchable

by prominent distinction.

I am the living shame

of fame personified.

I am a double agent

leading a monastic inner life.

I have been taken out of context

by recognition’s design.

I am a symbol for something else

in their mind’s eye.

I am kept hostage by this . . .

my own embarrassment

and of this betrayal as it were,

‘Eventfulness’ is ever so slowly

also happening as you . . .