Insight can feel like blindsight. You awake to a feeling of navigating your life reasonably enough but without any cues and clues. When pressured, things seem to work, must work, and bring your behavior into a sufficiently coherent whole. …

How can we possibly find a voice that expresses a frequency others may hear? When I read the novels and diaries of past writers, a strange sentimentality, a strange longing, and a sense of unfulfilled tingling inherent to a mere reflection of despair befalls me. Just enough despair to think…

She’s paranoid, said the ant Watching the fly bristling in the net She’s paranoid because we are here Said the other ant And I cannot see a spider, can you? The net is sticky, but it’s just taking time Until the wind shall set her free While the fly still bristled in the net She’s paranoid, said the ant Because you cannot fly if the world wants you To follow the trail of others Besides, said the ant to itself,

There is a newness in the world That stems from my body Moving Suddenly In its own time And with it my senses That tell me a different story Of belonging

The water running down my hands Skin on skin I felt like a child Sensing its own body With a new brain that said There you are And with sadness and hope I realized that I had never been Before I was Here with myself Washing my hands On a Sunday morning

I would have wanted From the rooftops, it echoed Further than my past My eye, I could see it Travel along the mind And it stopped In the midst of my own voice Disconnected From the world, the senses sprang And I was there With my mind hearing itself Whisper It echoed, from the rooftops A will to want

Consciousness needs a little bit of noise. While I listen to metal rattling in the distance, the dog’s paws on the wooden floor, and a single fly swinging its body repeatedly against the dirty window in hope of freedom, I follow my mind to its own sense of self. A…

The past cannot bear fruit When its practice is cut Down with the riches Of its own volution The past births free will While the present caught In mere mirrors of itself Sees not itself, nor can it Bring about a future In discovery of thyself With a past gone silent

Some of the best lines Of generations past Were written as I saw the best minds Of my time dwindle In twenty second spectacles Tweet tweet send reply We contain multitudes Flattened in attention rage While poems were written With the lives of others And our souls passed Without the best lines Being read