I Write in a Half-Dream.

I write in a half-dream. I dream in a half-dream. Words flow through me. 

I try to change the light with my eyes, my mind, my eyes close, 

and when they open I imagine it darker. 

Now I will get up. 

The room will darken. 

I breathe deeper in it. 

I seek not to mimic, and yet I stalk like a woolf. 

I struggle to not write every thought as a question, 

for that is how my mind presents them to me—

as questions. 

How do I write in a vacuum? 

I need some semblance of ether to breathe. 

Culture has taught me language, words. Has taught me to think, 

and so I think through culture.

I write through, with, in culture. 

How do I, How do I… 

How do I decide what makes a voice? 

How many ways can perfect words combine? 

How many lives do I seek to live? 

One. 

One filled with arbitrary, perfect, imperfectly perfect, monumental, and circumstantial 

Choices. 

Artist. Writer. Painter. Reader. Classic. Poet. Mover. Moved. 

Lives lived and lives studied. 

Endless potential iterations of something small, bright, wonderful, and hard. 

My sense of self wanders above my body, seeps out of me, 

floating in an aura around me. 

I write, I dream, I think, half-awake. 

Dipping my fingers in a stream of my own making. 

Holding my hand above the current. 

Feeling the magic enveloping, the break in the water’s surface. 

It chooses, at this edge, to hold me. 

To hold onto me, instead of itself. 

All-hesion. 

I write in a half-dream, 

an almost whole dream. 

And now, I dream.