The sum of everything else outside of
the permeable membrane that is myself-
does it equate to who I am?
Or does the view of any who don’t agree
with the lemon and honey in my coffee?
And with a desire to ensue too much
my mouth gapes open in a vocal-less scream
from a reoccurring dream, pervading reality.
While piles and piles of cluttered
knowledge collected since existence,
become buried in the landfill of my mind.
Engulfed by an excess of everything
in this material age. It’s just a matter of time
till mine is lost or thrown away.
What is tomorrow if not for today?
My ephemera, like the flame of a candle
which burns and flickers in the night
as the stars do. Even those holes in the black velvet
have a volatile core, susceptible to their own
gravity and liable to spontaneously combust;
an implosion outwardly creating proximate damage.
I am not immortal, and do not wish to be
it seems, though, that neither does my species.
Mostly in a state of existential crisis, wrapped up in my own mind and in the thoughts that weigh heavy through cyclical depression. Thoughts consisting of anxiety and unhappiness about school, society, humanity, the world, the waste, the ignorance, and my own inner conflicts of knowledge and memory cause constant yearning to exist in a more positive and productive state. My writing through this time has reflected the tendencies I have to think too much, my resolution being through doing art and through connecting with nature. My writing process is usually different every time. Sometimes by compiling small phrases I’ve jotted down in my notes, other times by writing stream of consciousness, and others are more about what word sounds intrigue me. I have found that my writing reads best when I utilize all of these tactics together.