I feel like I've lived a million lives in this building,
traversed a hundred different landscapes and
versions of myself.
I was a small, jagged rock collecting dirt and empty promises among all the decaying memories I hoped the Earth would bury.
I was the end of the hallway, heavy nothingness settling into dust in the distance, afraid no one would say I mattered. But you never said my burdens were too much.
I was the hesitant elevator door, the anxious anticipation of not knowing if I'd make it to where you'd be, to where I'd return.
I was the silence in the lobby, in my mind, a painting without color, as you waited with me patiently for some recognition. For some meaning beyond everything I was hiding.
I was the loud, angry closing of doors, the beeping of traffic, the footsteps of careless children descending stairs. I was everything I hated, and still, you remained.
I was music without a melody.
I was hope without direction.
