Dismissal Without Prejudice

Sight

I see the world blaze toward me
with the ferocity of a truth that refuses
to stay harmless.
Light arrives like an accusation,
striking the retina with the force
of remembered disappointments.
Shadows stretch long and desperate,
like thoughts begging not to be misunderstood.
Vision becomes a battlefield,
every color a confession,
every form trembling beneath the weight
of being witnessed.
Even the horizon seems to flinch
under the burden of being known.

Sound

I hear judgments erupt in ordinary sounds,
the violent honesty of a door closing,
the shiver of a single loose pane rattling
against the storm.
Every vibration carries a verdict.
The world hums like a wounded instrument,
tuned to the frequency of unresolved guilt.
Silence presses in with unbearable intention,
thick as breath held before a sentence is delivered.
My ears become chambers where the universe
is cross‑examined,
and even the faintest hum feels like a howl
from something aching to exist in more than potential.

Smell

I sense the odiferous sensation of the raw underbelly of existence,
the iron scent of fear,
the sweet rot of hopes left unattended.
Aromas rise like ghosts
from the places I thought I buried them.
Nothing stays hidden:
the air betrays everything
with ruthless honesty.
The world exhales its secrets
into my lungs,
forcing me to remember that essence is never still,
it follows, it clings,it insists on being felt
even when the mind refuses.

Taste

I taste the sharp metallic ache
of truths bitten back too long.
Bitterness pools on the tongue
like a confession finally spoken,
fragile but unstoppable.
Sweetness turns harsh,
salt turns sacred,
every flavor a revelation
about what I’ve swallowed
without questioning.
The mouth becomes a crucible,
burning away the illusion
that knowledge comes gently.
Nothing ingested remains neutral:
it becomes part of the self
or destroys something in its place.

Touch

I feel the world press itself into me
with the urgency of something
that cannot bear to be ignored.
Textures strike like memories
pounding on a locked door,
the cold, the coarse, the tender,
each insisting I am real, I am real, I am real.
But then the truth fractures:
the warmth, the weight, the pressure,
all of it collapses into a trembling realization.

This intensity is mine,
not the world’s.

These sensations are not proof,
they are participation.

And finally, Berkeley’s thunderous whisper:
Nothing sounds, nothing touches,
nothing exists in fullness
until a mind grants it passage.
A falling tree in a deserted forest
is not silent,
it is unspoken.
The universe of creation keeps the world from slipping
into the void,
holding the forest in perpetual sight,
but the crash…
the crash waits like an unclaimed grief
for any listening soul,
human, creature, or divine,
to ignite it into reality

and consciousness call it true .