With each blow to my chest
I put up another brick to build this
p[e]rison, called “I”,
this place of safety, protection, and possibility.
Everything that “I” could do.
Everything that “I” could be.
Everything that “I” could have.
Long pathways that never
seemed to reach the climax.
Loops.
Round and round.
Just to end where I began.
I fall asleep at night
and dream into infinite universes,
and endless timelines, just to see that upon waking
time has been lost…
And yet, I am still instant.
Instant.
Instant.
Not delayed.
Emerging without moving.
How can this be?
My mind wanders from
Room to room
Looking for answers
To questions that leave long striking
trails, like comets through a dark night sky,
Or cats, sauntering behind a fence post,
Or shadows sinking into the abyss
as the sun goes down behind the mountain.
I sit on the ceramic horses, scattered around the melodic carousel,
spinning me round and round,
Everything disappears, and reappears,
Disappears, and reappears
yet I only appear to be
Moving.
Nothing changed.
I am still.
Still here.
Still breathing.
Still crying.
And laughing.
And screaming,
Shrieking into the sky like the northern lights,
With a fervor that never ceases.
It goes on,
And on.
And on.
And on.