I am in a theatre, where the empty walls confine me.

There are so many voices, but only a pair of ears to hear them all.

Which should I listen to? Which ones aren’t real?

I am in a mirror-house, my many ghosts stare back at me.

One of them screams, the other one judges me with a narrow glance. One smiles with a smirk impertinent and asks, do you remember me?

Of course I do. We need no reacquainting.

I am in a park, where temporary peace is situated in the midst of a busy city.

These park benches, often vandalised and misused. The fountain afflicted by algae. In the dark of the night, joggers are mugged and stargazers are interrupted.

Hey, can’t I just go back to the time where we skipped stones for fun?

I am in a slaughterhouse, where death is a welcomed conclusion.

I wonder, isn’t it disturbing; to find a crime on the streets acceptable behind closed doors? How far back can reality bend, and will their splintered fragments meet?

This blood on the floor isn’t theirs. It’s mine.

I am in my room, a place where it’s easiest to find the entity called me.

Am I in the blue curtains, or the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered across the ceiling? Am I found in between the clothes in my cupboard, or the memory disk of my computer?

Perhaps this is it:

I am the dust in the room, along with everything it covers, and wherever I go, I will surely leave something behind.


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