Lypophrenia
For what it’s worth, I do not think anymore.
There are no thoughts that arouse my mind’s eye -
no caustic reactions
electric pulses
sparks of energy or light
anymore.
To think therefore to be
‘I think, therefore I am’.
Yet, I do not think.
There are no lines that trace back to the source -
if there are, they are an entangled mass of Christmas lights.
There is no 'that’s why I feel this way’
or
‘this is this and that is that’.
No nameable cause.
So, think?
I think not.
And when to think is a necessity, I am drained dry.
Consumed by the need to think -
thinking of how and when to think.
Which t-shirt to wear to bed
which sock to put on first
which knife to butter the bread -
best to leave knives alone.
So think? I think not.
To think is to fear and I am scared.
Feel. Everything. Deeply.
Ripping, burning, drowning
feeling
feelings can’t be thought– they’re not really there.
Conceptual night stalkers
Subjective tsunamis
Irrational quakes leaving unpredictable cracks.
A tear in space and time,
the only evidence that they exist
proven by the bubble of tears that rise in sleep starved eyes.
For what it’s worth, I’d like to think some more.
