Posterity

There’s an old abandoned coat factory, in a state that I forget, where if you jumped from three stories you’d land softly, with a cloud of dust rising above your head. It’s what we do with things, leave them, and hush their voices as soon as they get loud.

It gets very loud in here, I say to myself in my room, alone with the lights off and the shades drawn.

It gets so loud sometimes, that the noises from the streets below, the hustle and bustle of life become drowned out. “You can’t do this anymore” I say to the walls and the bathroom sink, and I take the taps drip as my answer.

My feet tap on the floor and the small sound echoes into the hallway, have I really been here all night?

There are sparks of light that fly from my hands and then dry up in the morning like nothing happened.

There are aches on my skin and time is moving slowly and words are coming out slurred and hurried.

There is a house at the top of a hill where I used to live when I was young. It was old and it teetered on the edge of nowhere but at least I knew where I was from. I look out into the darkness and wonder why I live somewhere where I can never see the stars.

I take out my old big camera and take photos of the blackness, reminding myself that just because my eyes can’t see beauty doesn’t mean it’s not there.

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