At first, you assume it's going to be
easy, stripping the wallpaper off
to reveal the foundation beneath;
after all, it's just one layer.
But, the more you scrape,
the more you find -
rusted veins that once shone
brightly like a newborn sun.
The layers suffocate you;
your mind, its conduit.
And then, everything around
you dies in a single, insignificant
breath, even the leaves outside,
though it's the middle of autumn.
You feel an empty sort of warmth.
As you finish your work for the day and
head home, people pass by with exuberant
silhouettes and rich textures in their speech.
You can't relate.
Leaves dance and spiral in every direction,
but you can hardly bear to look up.
You don't know how to process the life
in the background; it's overwhelming and
grand and too hard to hold on to.
You make it home, realizing you never
really left home, that you merely stepped
outside for a minute.
Though you wish you could properly
capture an ounce of the motion outside,
a droplet of sound and color,
