The Mausoleum By The Phantom Painter

“Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?”

— Charles Bukowski

I take a photo with the old camera out of my mum’s drawer

A quick shot of life

One short silent depiction of how I view the world

I like the old films

Colours not too bright

I’m not good at photography either

Smudged pictures on 15mm

Too orange, too yellow, too bright

I like looking at people, like capturing how life is for them

I don’t like being near them

I like myself on black and white film

"There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up."

-Oscar Wilde; The Picture of Dorian Gray

And it whispers

Maybe I do remember.

The quiet thoughts in dark corners during rainy days or sunny mornings.

I remember losing. Losing against thoughts that snuck up on me.

Is that form beside me a friend? It whispers to me, like a friend would, like we share a secret.

It’s the secret to why I feel like this. The whispers are heavy when they reach my ears. Words with weight to them.

My knees shake. It’s cold. It's the rain. Is it the light breeze? There’s sun. We’re holding hands. We’re holding hands. We’re holding hands.

I don’t know what’s gripping me. I don’t know what’s holding me down.

I can’t stand up.

It won’t let me go. It’s in my legs, in my arms. Weight, so much weight. It holds my hand. And it whispers.

My knees buckle,

My mind, it bends

My mouth stumbles

Over the words it borrows

From others with less sorrows

"A last request—grant it, please.

Never bury my bones apart from yours, Achilles,

Let them lie together . . .

Just as we grew up together in your house"

Patroclus to Achilles

The Iliad - Homer

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

Virginia Woolf

Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies