Sometimes I think I will escape this prison I call myself. That I can escape the algorithms, the false sky I stare into and see as Narcissus under glass: not an ‘above’, but a reflection taking me down below. Are our better selves something other than our ideal selves? This morning it said it might rain, it might get sunny later... the air now is cool, very still and fresh, like the world is waiting for something. I notice the old sandstone bricks on a building, some kind of cue for the emotional convict within me to rise and ask his questions. I see a corrugated iron roof, its ripples, its rust the colour of a slow fire. A few trees lean in to listen to my thoughts, their luminous and heavy greens as subtle as kind words in a conversation. Everywhere the secret rebellion at work, the doubtful beauty, the invincible habit of day-dreaming and alternative communication.
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I’m sitting outside
& keep thinking about pissing down that tree trunk over there.
It means I need to piss,
it means
I’m tired of limitations
being encased & compelled.
The particular image for confinement comes from our surroundings. But I think the feeling is socially based, an intuition of our movement and perception being narrowed. By what is publicly allowed into discussion and what not, growing poverty, etc.