I want to fade into the walls and hide, like memories or bad dreams or a fleeting look we think we spy among crowded eyes. A pipe dream, to live up to even memories of those who’s been before me, or even left the room before me, even while my heart still pumps that
cold,
black,
Fluid round my veins,
I’ll never be as good as them. Or funny. Or handsome.
The only impressive thing about my legacy is the pain it causes me. Irony.
I’ll never live up to their memory, my life almost ethereal, sounds and smells and sights flow through me, not too me.
Like I walking memory I wander through the streets I call my home, my mind, doomed to tread the prints of those greater, more refined, who’s time was spent with people who would look at them, not through them. Like I am a hazy window into the rest of the world.
Those who came before me, who’s thrones I travel by and through, their legacy, endless in its torment of my opaque existence, became my legacy, of laughter, at my expense, ridden for the brief high it gave.
All I leave this meagre and transparent world, is a shadowed memory, and words.