From My Brain to Yours

when you are small, the world is big in life’s great forest, you’re a twig as you may snap if you’re not careful, careful you must be  if you are blessed to grow a bud, and by god’s grace it blooms you’ll join the ranks of those whose thanks come mostly from perfumes  a silent word, a quiet thought, a third peculiar thing they come together in a pot till steam begins to sing when you are singing, you can fly above the tufts of trees  but on your landing, take good care — you mustn’t skin your knees when you are big, the world is small you cannot feel a thing at all you’re numb to little pricks and blisters, nonchalant and calm and when you see a little twig, it’s strewn across your path  it’s fallen to the ground, you see: well, you can do the math  i’m in a place where thoughts abound, and dreams are clear as day yet if i think too hard it seems i’ve got nothing to say if i were big i’d burn too bright, and i don’t like goodbyes it’s clear to me i’d rather be o...

surrounded by dreamers when one is a cynic’s “today’s meant to be” versus “well, life’s no picnic” enjoying a life while the life’s not romantic won’t mesh well with dreamers with stars in their eyes with feet planted firmly, you know who you are  but a dreamer’s convinced they may well be a star and a star they may be, but that’s so not your style so you smile and nod as they strive for some prize for dreamers, a life is as big as the ocean one drop in the water will stain the whole sea a cynic will scoff at illogical notions for cynics, a life has a limit of Me surrounded by dreamers when one is a cynic’s a school kickball player whose friends go olympic or seeing the world through the eyes of a finicky farmer who’s scoffing as pigs try to fly to stand and observe endless truths being twisted  is frustrating, true, but recall you must be understanding of things you had thought had existed  while climbing the branches of life’s twisted tree

if i were a troll under a bridge it would be a rope bridge and i would hang by a harness fifteen feet below, dangling over a ravine i would know when people walked over my bridge because the bridge would wobble and i would swing and if i happened to be in a particularly bad mood i would climb up my ropes (there would be big knots for footholds) and face the travelers if you dared to cross my bridge while i was crying you would surely be in for it a shower of my tears would accost you, obscuring Your vision the spray of salty water from my eyes would catch the wind and swirl all around, shaking the bridge violently and you would wonder why, but i would never tell you i could watch you fall down into the ravine, never having touched you with my hands you would descend through the air in slow motion, falling farther and farther away from me until you became a speck in my vision and once i could not see you anymore, i, too, would jump down off the swinging rope bridge, speeding through the...

if you took my brain out of the skull it sits in and stuck it in a blender, you'd get some kind of funky pink sludge. and from that sludge would arise a cloud of vapor the vapor of my hopes and dreams, half-formed imaginings of what i might do someday when i figure out what exactly it is i'm meant to. if i figure it out i have a whole world at my fingertips but i can't bring myself to snap - a snap that could create a universe or just a small clicking noise that echoes inside my mind as the touch of my fingertip lingers on my palm. if you were to take that pink sludge and put it back inside my skull i wouldn't be me anymore - with pudding for a control center my eyes could never paint the pictures they see and what a delight it is to look around and see pictures! to open my eyes every morning and take in the world... i'd miss it if my brain were sludge i think my favorite sense is smell. in the springtime, at least. i could spend my whole life breathing in the cool ...

i'm tracing a line when tracing, rewind into scenes that have played in the past they have laced 'round my spine, tumbled into my mind and dismantled my ship's solid mast if i throw myself under the current, the waves will envelop as downward I slide if i stay underneath and I breathe in the gravel i'll spit out each tear that i've cried i'm washing a bowl and the bowl is my skull and it's hollow but smooth like a stone my insides may roll until truths become null and i'm left to myself, all alone

I began writing this post about my COVID experience, stopped, started again, stopped again, and finally completed it on September 27, 2022, six months after the the whole ordeal. Here it is: Two years into this whole mess, I got covid. It's a little ridiculous; I've kept so safe for so long, and just when it was the least convenient, just when I could not possibly afford to catch it, covid caught up with me. I began writing this blog post while in isolation, around March 31 probably (I don't quite remember; I stopped writing it and am now revisiting this post on May 24), so I apologize for the confusion regarding the timeline of things. I could have caught it at any other point in the last two years and it wouldn't have ruined things the way it did this week. To be fair, that's a bit dramatic; I'm very grateful that covid didn't hit me hard. The worst of my symptoms came last week, when I was still under the impression that I just had a very bad cold. I star...