marble statue

i wanna cut off all my hair. identity is just a marble statue that i stare at until it stops staring back. nothing comes from the same nothingness i come from. it seeps and crawls and slithers and spills over the sides of the cup in your hands. you hadn’t even noticed. pay more attention. now it’s overflowing into the stream of your own consciousness and you no longer have time to define it. it’s already you.

i only remember half my dreams and i think i leave important pieces of me in those chasms still uncharted in my psyche. i greet her in the middle of the night and there’s an unmistakable sense of familiarity and i know this thing is just another part of me. but then i wake up. forgetting is the part of memory that frightens me. shattered glass scratches tattered parchment and leaves foreign forms scrawled along the paper and the walls. the shapes are familiar to all but one. look closer. look at what you’ve become. if you can’t see yourself in the ancient characters you’re not looking hard enough.

i need tangible change to track the transformation ungrasped by sensory perception. otherwise it just floats indefinitely out in space. i need to look in the mirror and see a different face. otherwise what’s the fucking point.

identity is just a marble statue but i’m no michelangelo and my forms are sloppy don’t tell plato that i’ve lost my copy. don’t tell me your name. i don’t wanna know. i just wanna cut off all my hair. maybe then i’ll perfect this fucking statue. who knows.

By em

a sometimes poet, sometimes painter, always philosopher

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