The theater of myself
I became my own theater of tears and laughter.
I was the troupe and the audience,
I was in the background and center stage.
I cheered and booed myself whenever I succeeded and failed to play the role that wasn't my own accordingly.
My greatest supporter.
And my harshest critic.
Were all me.
As I switched between masks I realised I could hardly recognize my own face.
I stared in the mirror and didn't know who it was I saw. Was it me? No, that didn't look anything like me. The features looked like mine but they were distorted, wrong.
I couldn't see myself and I know noone could either.
My existence felt hollow.
Everything felt hollow, devoid of meaning, devoid of colour.
I painted bloody pictures, but red can't replace the rest of the rainbow.
And there I stood, alone, yet not quite.
I tried to run yet I couldn't escape myself. I was a ghost trapped in a shell. A rotting carcass. No. Not dead. Just asleep. But the body needs nourishment even if it rests without stirring.
Now I watch the ocean in me.
Sometimes I drown.
Sometimes I swim.
It storms and it clears.
But the muse, she has returned to me.
She calls me sweetly with her siren song:
"It's time" and it is.
Thank you! I do like to think that I'm painting pictures with my words.
As for the cover... not really but I also really like the current cover, it's quite silly compared to the themes of my writing. But I do quite like the contrast.