At a loss for language,
I stop.
Observe.
My back against a wall
I do not remember raising,
inside a room
that calls itself my life
without bearing
one mark of me.
No face.
No soul.
No mind
I recognize as mine.
Only:
a word
wearing my shape,
and the boundaries
the world mistakes
for a name.
My yesterselves
carried their weight here,
then vanished—
leaving their shadows
to inherit the present.
I haunt my own experience—
most absent
from my deepest passions—
watching today construct itself
from ruins
I remember as dreams.
I push.
The wall
pushes back.
Not metaphor.
Not mercy.
Matter answering matter.
Pressure given body.
Existence baring
its hidden spine.
We trust the wall
because it will not move.
We name its stillness truth,
then call all motion
heresy.
Change, though,
is the blessed facility
of God Herself—
the hand by which existence
dies into difference
and rises
otherwise.
Evolution,
love,
existence—
change
exchanging names.
I am change.
You are change.
God is change.
What we call madness
may sometimes be a mind
grown larger than its room—
its language cracking plaster,
its thought transforming doors,
where dogma promised stone.
Each reality,
alone,
bows beneath
its private gravity.
But human truth?
Ha.
Naught but for convention:
an ossified cage
disguised as a stage,
held upright
by every body
taught to act their age.
Certainty
is certainly,
Just another idol—
another Jericho
awaiting
the heretical hand.
And when
at last,
The sun’s day gives way,
we welcome Her,
The undoubted night heir:
arms open,
eyes closed,
Breathing truly,
via freshly refreshed air
Related reading: Litany of the Self and Gauntlet’s Respite.
Originally published October 17, 2014. Revised and expanded September 1, 2026.
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