Perceptually bound
by lenses unseen—
existence trembles,
a whisper within
a storm of sensations.
We dance in
phenomenological shadows,
pretending clarity
when all is haze,
ephemeral wisps
of knowing,
of not-knowing,
of knowing nothing.
Chaos births reality;
uncertainty
the mother tongue
of the cosmos—
language fractured,
meaning splintered
into endless
subjectivities.
We speak,
but what echoes back
is our own voice,
distorted,
limitlessly limited
by the prison
of perception.
Every truth
merely an angle
of misunderstanding—
the eye believes
what the mind denies.
Embrace confusion,
swim freely in paradox:
only by drowning
in uncertainty
can we glimpse
the shape
of boundless chaos
we dare call
Reality.
***]^
yesterday, i stepped into the wind thinking it was a door.
it wasn't. but it welcomed me anyway,
spoke in tongues of fallen leaves and
dust philosophies, whispered:
"this isn't where you begin, but it is where you'll forget."
—meaning dissolves mid-sentence.
language curdles when it stares too long at itself.
and isn't that the mirror's curse?
you touch the glass
and become fiction.
**
here,
space folds like origami anxiety:
time hiccups, then doubles back,
laughing at its own joke—
(you didn't get it.
you weren't supposed to.)
phenomenology shrugs in the corner,
eating pixels and peeling back your cortex like wallpaper.
what is red
when no one names it?
what is "you"
when the mirrors are tired of pretending?
**
we built maps out of maybes.
atlas never consented to the weight.
he blinked once and forgot the sky.
i once met a philosopher who forgot how to ask.
he became a banker.
his soul now quantified in decimals
and fine print.
**
there's a room.
and inside it:
a door that doesn't lead out,
a chair that doesn't support,
a lightbulb that glows only when
you're not thinking.
(i haven't seen it lit in years.)
**
don't call this chaos.
chaos has direction, intent.
this is the song that was never composed,
played backward, underwater,
with no instrument—
yet somehow
still stuck in your head.
**
the truth?
we've mistaken clarity for comfort.
but comfort is an invention,
a hallucination on loan
from the part of your brain
that just wants
something
to hold.
**
nothing holds.
and that's
the most beautiful violence
of all.
—
want more?
