There is July

There’s a condition that is constantly repeated in this place. A condition by where words said or actions performed are swept under the rug, like the guest stars of a primetime sitcom. There are no chain of events in this place, nothing is bracketed to the next, creating an experience to tie togther; to learn from the next.
Every nuance of the discussion is set aside for other immediate concerns–most of which are never immediate or of importance. I am a ghost attached to a relic of stage, in a theater house no one frequents. I speak, but my verbs used seem to resonant with the recipent, more than the sentence they are a part of. I perform simply chores now, on this stage, mechanisms I have adopted just to keep myself from remembering that all around me is dust. denial. broken. This is not what I have envisioned or foreseen in my course. No one expects failure, especially when the stepwise process has been mapped out carefully. Still, the human frailty lurks. This condition, where words spoken honestly, must be constantly held unspoken; and acting out in the face of public(for, heaven’s above, if the children are to suspect that the garden is dying) is normal. I am furtive. I have become furtive, a myriad of emotions I don’t agree with, but for sake of survival must accept.
I do not enjoy this condition, and I’m not afraid to leave the stage. I’m not afraid to accept that there is no loving audience basking upon me up here. There are no new words in my script or stagehands in waiting to draw the curtains close when I am done. This concert hall is broken. This stage I stand upon is broken. I need to move off, on, and out.


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