The Performance.
By Sofia Skuza Rivera
Its an emptiness
Not being present.
Agdusting to a place, adjusting to its secrets
which seem artificial
One is supposed to explain nothing
Yet show everything
But for this, one doesn’t get anything in return
It’s simply an illusion
A fake replica of each person’s life:
– A seemingly kind carefree young man
As his heart lies with his cigar, flipping through a magazine
But
His presence was drained
His knuckles turning a pale white,
From the pressure from his balled fists
– A woman brushed her lips against her son’s cheek
Maybe in hopes of accessing the kindness within him
He moved away at her gesture
She seemed fine.
She wasn’t.
The phenomenon that is our lies and persuasion
As small as
The crease between aging eyelids
Yet it always seems to take up one’s life
For others, we lie,
For others, we suffer
For us…
I dont know.