By Derek Lumagui
Sometimes I stare at the wall for inspiration.
However redundant it seems, the wall is clear
A blank canvas for my mind to sort things out.
I paint my scenarios and hang up posters for ideas.
But then I look down as all that was on the wall
Slides off and slips into my subconscious mind,
Some ideas never brought out again.
Why do I do this? Why can’t I write or record, why do I shy away from that which I manifest?
I see myself staring back at me on the wall, a mirror.
He’s cold and unfeeling. Even when I run away from him and good things disappear, He remains. Out of sight, but I know he’ll be there when I look for him.
Do I embrace him, or do I keep running?
Do I tell him off, or wait until he catches up to me?
I feel so slow, yet I’m always ahead; my wall greets me every now and then.
I’ll never be able to perfect this wall, not so long as he is there,
His ominous glare piercing my back, his broken body
Waiting in the shadows until I come up to meet him.
When I finally stop seeing my wall and the ground comes to greet me, The mirror will appear, and he’ll come closer and closer until I’m dead.
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