There's a faint melody
In vain
we trudge on
In vain,
knowing this story has played out a million times before. We're hoping for a chance among tragedies.
We're even bending our knees if that would us a chance.
But the gods watch us dance to the same song.
In vain.
We tell ourselves that the wooden sword in our hands may be sharp. That the manuscript isn't rehearsed. That our surroundings aren't two-sided, painted wooden surfaces.
We tell ourselves the same thing.
Sing the same songs.
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 6:38 PM UTC
There's a faint melody
In vain
we trudge on
In vain,
knowing this story has played out a million times before. We're hoping for a chance among tragedies.
We're even bending our knees if that would us a chance.
But the gods watch us dance to the same song.
In vain.
We tell ourselves that the wooden sword in our hands may be sharp. That the manuscript isn't rehearsed. That our surroundings aren't two-sided, painted wooden surfaces.
We tell ourselves the same thing.
Sing the same songs.
12.05.26. This is something I scribbled in my notebook for a story I'm writing. It's about the repetition of history and the way we forget. What lives on and what is lost.
