texts from the museum

"I can't help but to be noble."

I traipse around this perennial mausoleum. It's an art museum, but that's what it is. An open casket. A peek into meandering celestial notions. I thrive here, of course. The damned seek solace in pretty things and white, open spaces. For a moment, I can forget and revel in the opaque silence. For now. 

Open windows, white walls, sushi afternoons, a bust of Napoleon, a frayed scarf, a lion, a tiger, an unbearable solitude forever more.

Wandering, wanderlust. Portraits of regal women, portraits of naked women, portraits of dying women; all are portraits of dead women. 

Stripes on a beach, the french call the sea a 'mar,' I love that, I love the past because I did not exist yet. 

Oh sadness does not rest, does not sleep, it only eats, eats away at everything until nothing is there. I don't know who I am or where to begin. I'm so lost among the white walls and gilded frames and tired eyes. 

I've seen her. That bronze statuette. The pretty little ballet dancer, looking up to the stars. She cannot move, but I hope she makes it there. We all need something to believe in. 

I squeeze my eyes shut and my contacts burn. I hear thumping and pounding and I haven't slept at all but that's still too much. 

I want to get away, I think. I've always wanted to get here, and now I'm here, and--it's all the same. No, it's not but I feel the same. 

I'm trapped within the confines of my own story and if I scream I'll get taken away and never be able to finish it. 

So I keep on, hoping one day everything will fall into place. There is no place, but the pieces will fall, they will fall and I will be ready.