A Work In Progress

I walk up to the microphone, it’s one of those old-time microphones that almost hides the face. As yet my unspoken words are pauses between mute lips. I am a work in progress, layers have to peel away until I can see my true self in any mirror. Like all mystics I am expendable, a surplus voice in a menagerie of other sounds. When you get right down to it our survival is for love of self an idea that comes with multiple flawed contradictions. What we believe in, is someone else for it is hard to have faith in a self that keeps changing into former versions of its being. I tap the huge microphone, to test for audio fidelity, then with a sigh walk slowly off the stage, as If I had never entered.