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once I dreampt I fell in the crack of two pavement slabs. The fall was weak and subtle, but long and extensive. I could only reach the bottom once I braced myself, and I touched ground with my toes. Followed by heels. And I felt no pressure on my knees. But when I looked around it was so expansively dark, so clean and gradual. The floor looked like a gradient of baby blue to deep black in shadow. And the floor had such soft texture, trillions of tiny grooves and crevices to dozens of small gapes and caverns. Feeling it i felt like I was shaking a hand. And the blood of the opposing secreted out of it and into me, to warm me, to extend me. And after putting my palm against its, I felt my souls seep lower to feel it too. I had no shoes, no protection, I was naked. Exposed. But it felt so right when I lay on my back, my arms unparalleled. I felt euphoria like the calmest of deaths. And I lay still until I noticed the shift, I was on my feet again, my back on the wall now. And emerging from the limitless black I saw a glow of orange. Or pink. Or peach. A phosphorescent button held up by two eyes. And then a face. The structure was blue as the palm of my stability, and smooth as the wall behind. It points its fingers above us, and then to me. Where its omnipotent cornia traveled down its jugular to the four tips at my forehead. It left a sclera in its loss. And when it got that close, it burned me, it burned my soul, and it boiled my chemistry. And it pierced my forehead until I was blind. A blindness filled with color, and pattern. A blindness with utter understanding. I knew it all now, that this is my conscience. That this is experience, that this is existence. And I knew every word across each apparition of each tongue. This feeling dichotomizes my previous rest, and my future rest, but paralleled and copied our eternal form and sight. But when I grasped it all, I was lifted back above my concrete, my vision restored. My memory exhaust. In my knees. I see my door before its invert. With my hand still shaking its hand. And I look down to my feet, my toes warm, and the crack on my porch looking so familiar. So welcoming. Like the arms of my favor.
Jul 19, 2025
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My room is a corridor of doorways. Not a space, not a shelter, but a network of half-thoughts and abandoned exits. The floors reek of piss, like some wild dog marked its territory and then left me to rot in it. The walls pulse with memory. Or maybe delusion. Either way, it’s loud in here. Thoughts swarm like ants — frantic, mindless, pathetic — all scrabbling for something to hold on to. Information. Meaning. But there’s nothing. Just famine. Starvation of sense. A thousand tiny legs searching for crumbs in a house that hasn’t been fed in years.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
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I’ve never felt this skin touch air before. It’s pink and raw like fresh meat, like something not meant to see the sun. And here I am, half-naked in a garden that pretends to be Eden, if Eden were lined with thorns and mountain lions instead of angels. The shrubs rustle. I hear it breathing. I know it’s there.
Maybe I made it up. Maybe the fear is its own beast.
Tonight, sleep will come with teeth. That I know. You can’t talk to nightmares the way you talk to people, there’s no bargaining, no clever arguments. Just blood and the echo of screams.
There's a cartouche on my wall, etched in gold and dust, staring back at me like a curse I forgot I summoned. I think it’s watching. I think it knows. And where the fuck is my shoe? I had it a second ago. It’s absurd, isn’t it? That I’m thinking about footwear while being hunted?
It moves. I move faster.
There’s a crunch. A scream, mine, maybe. Or maybe the thing’s.
I look down. Under my Converse, something’s twitching. Then it’s not. Just a smear, just a stain.
I’ve killed it. I think. I hope.
And I wonder, briefly, stupidly, would Mother Gaia forgive me for snuffing a life because it frightened me? Because it was inconvenient? Because it was there?
Probably not. But it’s dead all the same.
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They said ink was forever, but no one told me how it would feel to wear history under your skin, how it brands you not as a person, but as a relic. I want it out. Carve it from me, slice the memory from flesh, gouge each symbol until there is nothing left but blood and the sound of breathing through gritted teeth. Translate every line, every curve and cruel little mark, into agony, a night of reckoning beneath a sky that doesn’t look away.
Melt the gold. Let it burn. Pour it over my spine until it finds the fault lines in me, seeps into the fractures and remakes me. Not soft. Not forgivable. A statue, maybe. Something radiant and cruel, something you look at and flinch from because it gleams too brightly to be alive. I would rather be beautiful in my ruin than pitied in my suffering.
And still, beneath the gold, the river runs. The Styx coils in my veins, ancient and slow, and where it touches my soul, the skin splits open. He asks for penance. I have none. I have only these hands, these scars, this rage.
So I march with the rest of them. The dead who were never buried properly, the mourned and unmourned alike. We rot together in the open air, no prayers, no justice. Only the endless shuffling forward, bone against bone, ghost against ghost, hoping that pain might, someday, become something more than just pain.
Melt the gold. Let it burn. Pour it over my spine until it finds the fault lines in me, seeps into the fractures and remakes me. Not soft. Not forgivable. A statue, maybe. Something radiant and cruel, something you look at and flinch from because it gleams too brightly to be alive. I would rather be beautiful in my ruin than pitied in my suffering.
And still, beneath the gold, the river runs. The Styx coils in my veins, ancient and slow, and where it touches my soul, the skin splits open. He asks for penance. I have none. I have only these hands, these scars, this rage.
So I march with the rest of them. The dead who were never buried properly, the mourned and unmourned alike. We rot together in the open air, no prayers, no justice. Only the endless shuffling forward, bone against bone, ghost against ghost, hoping that pain might, someday, become something more than just pain.
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🌱my Stance rely on Grass. perfect posture molt by the Ground. the Sun squeeze Me until I condensate and evaporate upon Myself. the Sky hooks my compulsion to release My hazy stare on It. I bend Myself to find My feet. and between My hooves I see the only Black atop the Green and surround by Sky. I understand I need to know This. I rise and Shamble through memories of the Grass. the Color changes as I explore but the wind blinks Its change sometimes to often. and when It does that I forget the first image, if I saw It again Id never learn. but One Thing stay real, the Black. but now, Its Brown below, and shaped closer to recognition. and after the repetitive process of gullible reconnaissance the Weather changes Its final time, It is clear. and when I look up, It is there. A clean Fawn-Crow. the Utter Reflection, of what is Mother. of What is calamity that is of Me. It Stands like I do, just as It rose and Stumbled along to Me, as I Stand and watch Its voyage closer to memory. and now I know what it all was for. but still, I want to Walk like that again. so I lay, and dream in the Light of the Sky, as Clouds perform.
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🏵You know once I read about a living man. I read that that man decided he was a woman. But not long after she said she was a man again. And after experiencing all and everything this world had to offer, he decided to deatomize. He wanted to be nothing. But what he didn’t realize is that nothing implies something, so instead of being nothing he decided he’d be everything. so in him he grew a star, then he grew two stars, then he grew three, then five, then eight, then thirteen, then twenty one. And this continued until one of the stars got bored, there was nothing, so it decided it wanted to be nothing, and it died. But what it didn’t realize is that it was too much to be nothing. So in its corpse it grew a pretty little rock, then two, then three, then five, then eight, then thirteen, then twenty one. And this continued until those Little Rock’s adopted themselves to the other stars nearby. And circled and played around them until two of the pretty rocks had an accident. One of them hit another, and the one that got hit grew, and the other shrunk. And that big rock became angry and the small one mockingly rotated it taking all its sight staring it in the eyes. And the big rock while enraged crackled and popped, and grew layers upon itself for so long. And once it was completely shelled off from everything else, something clicked. On it it now carried a cell. Now there was something that can experience. Now there was a reason for anything to happen, and everything but only within the steps of this eye. So now it all grew and became elegant. All showing off to this pretty rock. And few angry asteroids later, and a few orgasms, and a little blood. There was a living boy, and that boy grew into a living man. This living man would have a story written about him, and he would read it, and he would say it, and he would scream it, and he would realize it. And so life now birthed. Birth is metaphase. Death now understood as mitosis reversed. everything became real. we as I now see our reflections as my daughters and your parent. Breath through our lungs now.
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👁in my experiments I am exposed. Where the hand of the cleansed pets my scalp, and digs its nails well under my meninges. And grasps onto my chiasm to force my head back out of where it rests, and where it’s been. And I see, the sky bore a pearl. The pinball above casts its atmosphere around us as a dome containing the fog of our skin. Shrouding my prints, and the tracks of my parents. And the map of our possibility is black as the forgotten while beneath. And when the hand releases, I fall to rest and exhaust my memory. And so it fades. Afterward, I walk a little past the white of our sclera onto the cornea, I feel chemical burns on my feet. But the warmth is so telling. So I look at the glow of the phosphorescent spots. They become real seeping through my sight from a figment to a child’s. And as I focus myself on them they grow and consume to create a light beyond the torches of my predecessors. It shows the path we must. Its ambiance lifts me from my souls and its light spreads my retinas to three dimensions over again. And as my skin disappears I see the marble. I reach, but I can only grab its ninth layer of armor. So I climb and conquer the phosphorus cushion to feel the dome. And I peer over it briefly before the shine in my lens smolders and my skull weighs me to the ground one step back. The cascade uninitiated, but close to repeating reliance.
3d ago