ceases to exist
until we recognise it.
The reality of our reality is that
our interpretations invent
Everything we know
we only know through the eyes of
There is no
only how we see that fact.
we cannot claim to
attempt to understand our incessant
“I wonder if technology will ever advance to the point where people adopt the ability to manipulate their innate, emotional identity with a filter? Imagine the day that Snapchat decides which personality traits are “undesirable”, and pairs that with the application’s current programmed definition of physical imperfection…”
She was born with tragic power,
to spend days & weeks pseudo-prioritising;
calculating the probability of failure,
obsessing over the pure intentions
she was destined to allocate polluted time.
Irony couldn’t save her droplets of capacity
from emptying into a puddle of indecision,
that not even the most durable wallflower
could turn into bloom.
Nor could the pursuit of endless possibility
fill her with enough reassurance
to outbid the armies of distrust
who, bit by bit,
sold her power to her mind.
I have always felt I was born with magic
and palms nursing fear like limbs.
Acres of consequences,
The responsibility of control.
Suppose we were all born afraid of
the guilt and torture
of casting the wrong spell
… like harbouring the curse of inaction.
Proofread your essays
not your stories.
Do not stain your voice with red marker
to feel publishable.
Be a notebook
pages out of order
so many words spoken imperfectly
on the perfect skin coloured parchment
She was a storm in a teacup.
Sip by sip
depending on the sip.