The film is heavy and thick.
I pull it out of its slumber,
expecting it to snarl at me.
I spin it on the reel,
a satisfied click as it rusts into place.
The summing sound escapes the machine.
A lightning strike fills the room,
I’m in frigid Berlin,
travelling in a dusty carriage
Crowds Tummel around a stage,
Factory workers rush to the tram.
The picture changes.
My hands are raw, blisters building,
scrubbing at the bloody cloth.
My mouth fills with the taste of bitterness,
I inhale the dirty dust
floating in the air.
The sound of canons fills my ears,
the smell of unwashed bodies drifts to my nose.
I scratch at my skin, stinging from the rough wool.
I’m back in the room.
The light is out, breathing in the darkness.
Gone is everything.