life feels meaningless
the love of other people washes over me
and collects in the drain
before washing away
my body is cold and untouched
trembling, having lost conviction
my body does not feel like mine anymore
my soul is distant
she runs when I call to her
I want to say sorry
but I say it into a void
because none of me
lives here anymore.
she put herself in a box
on a shelf somewhere, thinking: I’ll get to that later
and then never did
she woke up, of course
20 years down the road
as if emerging from a nightmare
she shivered in cold sweat
wondering how she could have
lost herself
trying to retrace steps
as if all of those years
– all those selves she could have been –
were really in a box somewhere
and if she could just find it
she could go back
to who she used to be
and start over.
The truth is this: we go places, and only pieces of us come back. We turn into the frames of stolen paintings. We become easily ancient and bereft in this way, collecting dust and neglect like an empty vase on a high shelf.
To slow this decay, I steal missing pieces of other people, people being or pretending to be their better selves. I rob them of their alter egos in sarongs and flips flops, in high heels and tackily patterned shirts. I paste these snapshots of stolen history in random corridors in apartment buildings with rickety fire escapes.
Here these images stay:
Documenting when you were brave and adaptable
When you were better than you ever thought you could be
daring to wear what you’re now scared of putting on
Not thinking of stretch marks and extra flesh gathering in places where you used to be unattainable youth
You grinning full-toothed pure happiness right into a camera
Not knowing the feeling for what it was then; not seeing misery in the near distance
You with people you loved
And lost touch with or just lost
You, full to the brim, of self
Who knows? Maybe all my petty thefts will turn it all around. Maybe they’ll give me answers to why people disappear themselves and slip away from who they used to be.
And maybe I’ll wake up one of these days with more than half-life heartbeats, and be brave enough to search for the missing pieces that are me.
nancyornot 