Disko Topu

The Story of Someone Despite
I was a star. I was ordinary. I was a coincidence. I was wrong.
I was an accident. I was unlucky. I was trouble. I was a disaster.
I was a fire. I was ash. I was a voice. I was unheard.
I was a fragment. I was absence. I was a stain. I was shame.
I was a question. I was incomplete. I was a wall. I was cracked.
I was a tree. I was hollow. I was a flower. I was lost.
I was a road. I was impassable. I was a thorn. I caused pain.
I was a memory. I was blurred. I was a tale. I was brief.
I was a bed. I was rotten. I was a ceiling. I was pierced.
I was a night. I was a miracle.
I was nothing. I was everything. Whatever I was, I existed. I was someone, too.
Someone you would not want to shake hands with. Someone your eyes would still miss, even when you carefully scan your surroundings. Someone despite everything. My story, most likely drifting toward emptiness, will be forgotten in a very short time. Not being forgotten does not belong to life anyway. But… Even the most unexpected people have written histories somewhere.
Their world is a sphere, a disco ball. Sometimes sparkling, sometimes shattered, sometimes present, sometimes gone. Yet it keeps spinning. Sometimes people arrive, sometimes people leave. They and the disco ball are always the ones who remain.
Contains trauma-triggering elements.