every morning is a race to reassimilate; reading messages, checking email, speeding through cups of coffee,
an earnest attempt to behave as the productivity credo acquires: be here, do work, be in 'the world'
when i exit the safety of my self imposed cell, i find myself unable to digest the multiplicities of reality that converge in the 'the world'
I become pǝʇɐɓǝu
the narcissisus flower I painstakingly recreate every morning, that tiny bloom in which the shadow of who I think others see,
is shattered and the cavities of my heart feel all too visceral, all too fleshy, as it threatens to burst, expose my meer materiality
the legs become weak, and the ego sighs deeply all its contents, resting somewhere between the diaphragm and the lungs, defusing away
this lack of permeability to my perception of reality has me wondering lately, am i just like my closest friends? neurodivergent, chronically 'off'
if i am, I think i'd prefer not to know: i'd like to slip away, and let that chronic anxiety regarding the nature of mind and body become something beautiful
i wont sequester myself in a greenhouse; planting narratives' seeds, watering fragile facts or truisms on existential matters.
i will let myself be, and as my youth fades, i will let my wiser years be one of existing as is: no gardening a narcissus flower which cannot withstand the storm of 'the world'