Museum of Southern History

Everything seems determined to show off the ability to spontaneously erupt and brilliantly shatter before dying into dusty darkness, finally emptying the air and leaving all (whoever is left to purvey this “de-existance”) to eventually forget that anything was ever there in the first place.

I fail to see why it is so hard to accept that eventually all of it, all of everything, surrenders to the black void of “forgotten.” ...which must be the reason I accept the invitations from dancing temptations to wallow and mourn over the death of past incarnations, different versions of me that are necessarily dead because of my existence.

In some ways I feel trapped by the many Me’s of yesterday and the future Me’s yet to be, with the strange feeling that they are judging me, that I am constantly trying to best them. Constantly evaluating how I stack up to them. Am I smarter? Prettier? Happier?

I’m catty to my own copies.

At the same time I feel the weight of their eyes, calmly pleading with me to just not fuck it up. 

Any of it, all of it.

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