Discipline Act.
Fighting to wake before mid morning snack, before breakfast.
To impress the aging audience. They clap very slowly, having no life left in them to gasp.
Kicks, punches seem aimed right, but unluckily no actual movement is taking place. It's all a vision, while I'm sat in my chair.
Trails of hand movement, confused with excitement and magic.
I came home to find i had nothing.
The memory of imagined possessions often greater than the truth.
'Hush' they told me.
Communal audience somewhere outside here. I'm sure they are judging and trying to help. Whispers inhaled.
My hair, my parting, the hairclip all glimmer from this perspective.
But the effort to maintain belief of my reality is getting the best of me. Maybe it's time to forget how to do it.
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