When you empty a room, and rid of all posters, the dusty tired picture frames, the cobwebs that you weren’t even aware of, there is something that hits you inside. You hear your voice, echoing back from the walls, from the disdained emptiness of yourself. And you wonder if all you ever did, right here, in this little room, was worth doing. You wonder if anything will be remembered.
Box after box, layer after layer, and we are moving on again, and again. And although we are no longer strangers in our own skin, although we’ve built on and have learned to let go, still, there is a funny sadness from the bruised walls.
The fog suffocates us, me and these broken memories. The clock ticks and the sound echoes back. I write, for a last time, within this space.