The Haunting.

I’m left holding
Fragmented thoughts
Disintegrating dreams
Of yesteryear.
My dreams don’t fit
The mold
Of the life I made
My dreams don’t
Match
The life we live.

I ponder the roads
I could have traveled
And where they may have led
Had I chosen differently,
Would I still be right here?
Would I be the same?
I don’t know.

I catch a glance at my reflection
in the bedroom mirror.
My hair is grayer
The lines around my eyes—canyons.
The voice I have
sounds so different than
the one I had years before.
This one
speaks so softly
And catches
When I think of the past.

My heart begins its aching
My body longs
for the joy of song
The joy of performances
That echo from long ago

While vacuuming
I hear the melodies in my mind
Brahms, Britten, Verdi, Orff
I try scrubbing the floors
and think of
acting on a stage
While doing dishes
I catch myself mouthing lines
Sartre, Moliere, Shakespeare, Wilson, Durang

While folding clothes my fingertips caress the textures of each cloth
Sketches of costumes, make-up, lighting grids, props
pop into my head
The joy of creating something
Out of nothingness.
The memories fade out.
(Standby--Blackout--Go.)
It begins to fade to black
fade
Into nothingness
gone.

And I’m left alone
With my thoughts.

Silence.

A quiet home
In a strange place
Isolated.

What do I do now?
What do I do now?
I think of the things I sacrificed
A part of myself
A part of my life
to show I cared.
I left my dreams behind.
I lost them somehow.
Maybe I never really had them.
I feel like a stranger
In my own body.
In my own home.
I don’t remember me
I don’t remember anything.
I grasp for any hint
For any clue
That will lead to
A vocation
A passion
An outlet
Something.
Anything.
What is it that
Is in me to do?
The things I miss most
I’ll never have again.
Even if I knew how to get it all back
I don’t know if
I would even dare try.
I’m scared and I’m tired
I’m getting much older.

Where do I even begin?