As days go by and I sit on this same chair for hours, my mind disattaches and a melange of thoughts take over me.
I am sitting, but I’m not present.
Tuesdays and Fridays tend to be intense. An overload of energy, a hijacking of my senses.
Am I human?
Is this Universe one or are there other Worlds, other dimensions, other timelines? Am I always me or might I be able to switch to a different version of myself somewhere else?
A better version of myself.
Or the version of myself that I would like to be now.
A multiplicity of possibilities. It might be somewhat real.
But I have never trusted reality much. It tends to be distorted, adapted to the viewer’s own confusions.
A burlesque “piece of art”; a cabaret of performers ready to ridicule me.
Characters reappear insistently after each act. They come back on stage looking for me.
For this me, this one I don’t know who she is.
And also for each and every other version of my multiple estranged selves.
Wherever they might be, there is no space to hide.
It doesn’t matter.
They always find me.