I don’t feel like self, some new creature, atmosphere
observing me. I don’t see people like seeing souls, I see existential silence.
I wonder about life, flat feelings, internal violins. Days on sameness,
simultaneous spirituals, drums tiptoeing across waves. Seeing images, fretting
reality, asking self if essence is immortal. (To become as one candle, in a
given second, minds at frequencies—to have loved unbeknownst to self, never
explained, it hast to feel unusual.) It doesn’t feel as explained, those rumors
are exaggerated, it’s a presence, a portrait, froth and foaming, neither, just
filled with thought-debris. Identity is tied into it—birth seems incomplete—longing
doesn’t explain it … overwhelmingness is another exaggeration … it sleeps
inside, it wafts in a sudden moment, it might linger …. Certain causality—certain
casualness—just pinching, pricking, itching … never begging itself … not enough
to risk embarrassment …. One is inside, living a lifeline, a ghost, tongues
exploding. A haunting, a banshee, to feel like a stranger to self. It seems
different, it isn’t just love, it baffles, and I walk away.
