Abandoning the Labyrinths of Shed Skins

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.


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

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