I look around this darklit room, there is a bit of a crowd.
The ghosts say all our paths are riddled with cracks, a bit broken, I should know, how else would I get here?
The dissonance, it sounds like our voices, feels like our hands. It aches and it pierces like none of the other noises
I anxiously line up behind the ghosts, to see my own stare in the mirror. And I look with a meticulous eye, trying to find something to define; Who we are or what I once was, but the fractured image was a blur. And in that moment the clock ceases to tick and I ceased to exist.
Shivers rake my spine and my skin tightens. Oh, these thoughts are too obscure. So I try to write them down, articulate them on paper. Seeking a shape or a pattern. Searching for an answer. Trying to make sense of this house. Trying to make sense of myself
But what I find is so terrifying to me.
It's a mess, It's nothing, I can't find a single thing.
So I write and I write and I write and I write, but I can't escape the lines, I can't escape myself
So I tore out the paper and I left the room.
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