The Second Act

Is it attention or community we’re after? Is it to be known, truly, or just the chance to explain ourselves? To air out the truth of ourselves, our sins, our desire for peace that seems so nonsensically easy it must be impossible.

But we don’t and aren’t. We sequester and bemoan these walls that are made of paper pasted together with our own piss and tears. And somehow, still, we compare and tear down the same thing we prop up in ourselves.

In the end, it’s just the memories. Down a haunted hall, the windows, covered in that mâché of paper, piss and tears, blocking out the current light, and you can pick a little, try to look behind, remember harder – better. But it’s all foggy and lonesome.