there’s a clear distinction between getting what you want
and wanting more than what you can get, she says,
kneeling in front of a piping hot kettle and a small bowl
accompanied by a humorously small bamboo whisk.

Bug-Eye looks at me. the meaning of a sentence is lost in the hexes of her wings, her spindly thin abdomen, the way her fragile limbs twitch.

she tries to smile. she doesn’t. i turn to the murky pool in front of me, losing myself in the way the petals relax on such a delicate surface. the air is thick with heat. i collect more than enough sweat upon my forehead.

you need not ask for more than what you have. nor ask for less than what you deserve.
but why? my reply lingered between us like an afterthought.
why ask when you could have more? the clink of china, the unsteady stirring irritates me with her ungraceful, jerking movements. Bug-Eye relaxes. silence. the grove is clear.

she turns the cup in her hands, once, twice, thrice; her spindly fingers tracing the grooves of a world not yet explored. her eyes watch me closely. all five hundred of them. i turn away
to watch how the koi fish do not swim through the water, but
become stagnant in a place the water feels best.
we kneel on the grass, sipping the green tea as quietly as one can. that is all i am left with.

perhaps this is the reason why i do not ask for more;
nor deserve any less, because
we simply are given with all that we need.

I never struggled with my thoughts,
I understand I think this way because that's the thinker I got.

The only problem in my thinking,
Is the fact you don't understand my thoughts,
That's still not my fault.

Very much Alive
Very much Here
Very much waiting for a Career

it is said that
“when once you have tasted flight,
you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward,
for there you have been, and there you will always long to return”
& i have never felt the same way.

the sky: broad & open as it is,
her great blue beauty
will never have the same grit &
smell that dirt gifts me.

i’d rather kneel on the pavement beneath me
than suffer the misery of clipping my wings.
because i’d rather seep into the soil
than have the stratosphere melt away my freedom.
i would have the earth eat my bones
than dissolve as a fleeting cloud

if i ever die,

please turn me into a blade of grass,
amongst mud & rubble,
perhaps in a cemetery
or a meadow.
maybe i’d become a sapling
growing in a park
or a rock, unearthed.

i’d be more at home with that;
tethered to this world
rather than a fleeting moment in the sky
in the air,
in the wind.

this world is mud-luscious &
puddle-wonderful
so the sky cannot be the only
limit

You want to know what’s wrong?
Why I’m like this? Why I pull away?
Fine. Sit down.
Let me ******* tell you.

It’s my head.
My own head—the thing I live in every **** day—
it doesn’t stop tearing me apart.
It turns everything into a problem.
Twists every word you say into something worse.
Invents reasons why you’ll leave
before you even think about staying.

I ask myself, Did you mean that?
Were you lying? Are you tired of me?
And it’s not you—
it’s me and this brain that won’t shut the **** up.
It’s a riot in here.
Screaming, tearing things apart, burning everything down,
while you sit there, calm, like I’m losing my mind for no reason.

“Relax,” you said once.
“Stop overthinking.”
Yeah? Great advice. Thank you.
Let me just hit the imaginary off-switch in my head.
Oh wait—it doesn’t exist.

I replay everything.
Every second, every word,
every glance you gave me that felt half a beat too long.
And I know I’m being crazy,
but that doesn’t stop the noise.

I second-guess every feeling I’ve ever had—
every good thing we’ve built—
because the voice in my head says it won’t last.
It tells me you’ll leave,
and I believe it.

I always believe it.

And you know what ****** me off?
You think I do this for attention.
You think I’m dramatic.
You think I’m trying to hurt you.

No.
I’m trying to survive in here.
In a head that picks apart everything good
and turns it into poison.

I ruin things before they can ruin me.
I push you away because that’s easier
than waiting for you to walk out the door.

And I hate it.
I hate that I can’t trust anything real.
I hate that I doubt every time you tell me you care.
And I hate that deep down,
I’m always waiting for you to stop loving me.

Because no one ever stays.
And honestly?

If you were smart,
you’d run now, too.

When I say irritated, I mean it prickles my skin.

When I say sore, I mean it stays red and puffy.

When I say annoyed, I mean it furrows my brow.

When I say displeased, I mean my mind is tangled.

When I say provoked, I mean I long to strike out.

When I say I’m angered, I mean it fires my heart.

When I say enraged, I mean it curdles my soul.

the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image

life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but  we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body

so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning

the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured  flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,  
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being

the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the  field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings

then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born

intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking  
whille a distant star is crushing itself,  
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay

perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies

Thinking and writing
and writing about thinking
While sitting and thinking  
And thinking while sitting
about the feelings
(I feel)
when sinking in the seeking.