Five hundred leagues under the sun, and you’ll feel the pressure on your skull. A weightless mass so heavy and coarse, the friability of human flesh eventually gives into its density. All the winds of change, of daily cares, of violent sounds within the murmuring. All the deafening silence and the clattering of teeth against nails. All this electrostatic tension that pulls the heart in multiple directions. Somehow, we all seem to walk happily wounded. I wonder if it is that we are truly feigning pain, or are truly blissfully unaware. Do meridians flow through us, or are we flowing on the forces of nature that shear – that burn, or that freeze?

I walked through a world so strangely foreign, but apparently mundane. A walk through a familiar creek, on a familiar path, and yet I still felt so detached and misplaced. I couldn’t help but feel so inhuman and removed from my surroundings, like a bishop in a game of checkers. Buds awakening from hibernation within both herculean trees and thin and dilapidated branches and the subtle flow and bubbling of water behind me. Streams that flow like calm fingers through a bed of marshmallow, slowly but surely gripping firm ground. People pass by me – or do they? I can’t tell if these pedestrians are truly random or simply a mirage. I don’t appear to exist to them, and I don’t feel alive when around them. Perhaps we live on different dimensions but perceive the same puzzle of life.

Tired, but invigorated. I’m in a world that is slowly fading away from my senses. A world that I barely feel. A world I don’t quite belong.

A Plebeian Scholar’s Plea

A gown is much too heavy
for the minuteness of existential significance,

But a hoodlum’s garb is much too light
to hold the surge of alacrity in defiance.

While not bound by the intricacies of houses
to live with integrity and benevolence,

There are layers of omnibus auras
that direct from mere ambivalence.

While not voiced as the journeyman
that is so desperately sought,

There is enough of the Renaissance
to join the battles that need to be fought.

While there are Oxfordian intellects
that cast shadows upon us in their light,

A humble flame flickers in a shorter wick
when called upon in an unfortunate blight.

Quietly, in hiding,
pondering beyond the plebeian life,

We await in light slumber
until we are called upon in moments of strife.

While our body, mind and soul
dissolve in effervescence,

The spirit of our work
shall keep us warded from evanescence.

So hear my plea, dear cognition,
for we live to serve the greater intellects,

What keeps us in existence
is the very thing that destroys our prospects.



Quell the angry voices.

» Keep reading.

Sickness and scientific hodgepodge

Have you ever wondered what it felt like to honestly be ‘sick’?

» Keep reading.