Sometimes I forget why I am here.
Not here at this moment
as a voice inside your head,
nor here as opposed to there,
but here in a place removed from time and space,
existing on a separate plane
parallel to the revolution of the world.
Seconds have no meaning in my world;
they bump and collide with each other,
ricocheting off invisible walls,
regrouping then dispersing
in a satirical rendition
of a synchronized ballet.
It’s easy to lose myself in here,
easy to abandon myself
to the chaotic crusade of autonomy,
losing myself only to find myself
then losing myself again
in a frenzy of self-emancipation.
I can see and feel things that people
from the real world cannot,
like the soft trill of a nightingale
crystallized in the sweet breath of moonlight,
each note an icicle
in the jaws of a monstrous cavern.
I can hold the page of a book
and feel the eager heartbeat within it,
shouting to be heard in a voiceless whisper,
the shout contained in every line,
the beat in every word
of immortal flesh.
The spaces above,
the words captivate me also:
a silent void in which words and ideas
rejected by their creator fall
and are consumed
within the blankness.
Here, where there are no people,
no faces distorted with pain and anguish,
no screeching of tires
late in the still-born night;
here, where a heartbeat contains a thousand memories
and a memory a thousand hearts –
it is here that I find myself
time and time again,
unsure of how I arrived,
not knowing how or when I will part.