I sit here at 1:39am, a little spooked but mostly amazed at how it’s possible for me to do this: to sit past midnight in front of a piece of history that has seen blood and guns and metal.
But it has also seen love. Or the possibility of it. Or the vaguest hope of it. The faintest illusion of it.
I stop walking to confirm that the sound in this deserted park is the echo of my footsteps. And it is.
The wall looks weathered than before. And if I’m not punished to say it, uglier than before. Because it was what I was staring at when I was thinking of things I don’t want to think about again. Of how I let myself be so vulnerable in that moment. How I was open and true and all my colours were spread apart. How open I was to allow my soul to be seen. Which is why I got hurt.
The sky is murky. Dirty. Barely a few stars are visible in the grey. Yet I’m happy I came back here. I can’t let them cut my hair again.
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