Abandoning the Labyrinths of Shed Skins

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I travel back to your faces, into their rich pastridden texture.

I hear their opening voices, their gulps and echo-lands.

And I wander across the past and the present, the old songs.

 

It’s a sensation destabilising itself between nostalgia and shame.

It’s my old vanished faces, former glory and deeply rooted unhappinesses.

I had lost myself in endless pretence and yearning shadows and inadequacy.

 

These faces block me, shake me, from afar, from deep within and I return

To hollow places that feel too dark to reawaken.

I hear our voices, the fading screams and hopelessness, the nonsensical violence

 

In our arms, that nobody believed in and everbody listened to.

You look at a photograph and reminisce, but I look at it and see it within a context

And I ache, as I understand myself and look at myself retrospectively.

 

I detect the silent declarations of my own misery, of my own prisons,

My fears and passivities. I see myself clearly and the words that were never uttered,

The wars that have never been cured by love.

469px-Christoffer_Wilhelm_Eckersberg_-_Morning_Toilette_-_WGA07456

“Morning Toilette” by Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg (1783-1853)

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