I'm stuck in my head,
the world is spinning,
revolving around the core of me.
Nothing is sensible
the shouted words are
phantoms and vapors,
the twisting tendrils of
space inside spaces undefinable
the axis is skewed
the images are slurred remainders
of intelligable thought.
Entertain me?
I'm detained
by self-important, unimportant
ramblings and gibberish.
Granted.
So I'm still fascinated
by my own pathology and the
understanding of just
what I have become,
and what I am,
in the inner trappings
of my little microcosm.
I am satisfied to observe
the comings and goings of a
technically non-substantial being.
So, if the inner me only
exists as a small charge
between neurons,
an electrical pulse,
and I find myself to be...
reasonably entertaining...
why do I refuse, then,
to be more forthcoming
with my own "self"
when I want that "self"
to be known for what "it" is?
Another drop in the bucket
an undeniable plunge
into the nothingness
of the eternal mind.
The collective thoughts
of the "human" organism
that we all are.
We breathe, we feed, we multiply,
we die.