The Birth of a Solipsist

I’m caught in the landslide that swallows up,
My scene of reference.
Getting lost without taking a step,
Watching steps get taken away from me.
An evacuation sponsored by city-slickers,
Vacates my/our building blocks without digression.
The earthen mountains that hold me still,
Uproot and begrudgingly take their leave;
Free will fulfilled in the form of a push,
Extension of the negation from inner to outer.
Those Other [wo]men move in,
To pick up bricks to move back out.
Clear the way with machines with ehtical objections,
Found in the truth of inertia.
I climb up and out,
Over and over,
Mountains of debris and ‘repeat the process’.
Night comes almost by the hope of an external sign,
Universally spoken word that change is on the wind.
Instead, the ruins disappear,
And all that’s left is a glass sheet that buries the used-to-be.
Slipping is all that results when you try to run,
From or towards anything and everything.
So I jump, out of frustrated fear,
To remind myself I’m not paralyzed.
I jump, and forget to will myself to fall.
My reflection sinks as I rise,
A casualty.
With the sultry sound of silence propelling me,
I stumble across tiny doorsteps of perfect fluid,
Whipped into dessertclouds;
I am at home again, for the first time.

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