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.