9 October 2015


The various structures of my mind
are breathing, inhaling and exhaling,
small window spaces open, open and growing.
The walls I built with stone and wood, now
collapse - but in a wonderfully surreal way,
they tilt and sway, they groan under weight of
Derrida Lacan Foucault Freud Deleuze Guattari Saussure 
and my mind hurts sometimes, muscles straining to
comprehend, fists tight and jaw clenched, still waiting
for paradise as a place where I can sit. Sit, not stand,
not move, not constantly be moving, there is no comfort
in an understanding that opens windows and doors but also
breaks walls, hurtles the raw power of wind on the pillars,
nudges the very ground on which I stand until it expands
inwards, to a single dark point in the distance. My mind
hurts, yes, but my soul is nourished, it is bruised but it
grows, the various multiplicities of my mind refuse to be
flattened, and Eliot and Roy murmur deep in my ears, 
I understand things about beauty and love and life that
I never did. I see the world as darker than it ever was,
but I see stars. I lie down in oceans of light, and I trace
connections on the taut skin of sky, I create constellations,
I breathe, deep and unaware, deep, so deep that the world
decides in a flash to breathe with me, press thundering heart
against my flutter-bird chest, and inhale. Exhale. Inhale. 

I tremble at these various gladnesses. 

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