Fog
Fog is like a cage. But does it really bound you if you never try to leave it? If you’re trapped in jail, but you never try to leave, are you really trapped? – I forget which philosopher poses the latter question.
Who is Hungry
Your brain is carved into pieces.
We already do this: frontal lobe, occipital lobe, parietal lobe, etc.
Except your parts are tinier and in multitude.
You are one of those parts. You, the one reading this – the one whose voice you hear.
The others are cut off and different, in their own right… but not. Not completely cut off, and not all that different.
One part feels something, maybe hunger. And they say, “I feel hungry.”
You are either surprised to hear those words escape the lips or they enter your thoughts and you voice them. Normally, you allow this to happen with only a slight ponderance lingering of who exactly is hungry.
But this time it lingers longer. And you wonder,
Am I hungry?
You try to connect with the feeling of hunger, and you realize
I can’t feel it.
But I must be.
And you decide to eat.
.
.
A part wants something sweet.
This time, however, you don’t just not feel that want, you oppose it.
I don’t want anything sweet right now.
Yet you watch as the hands reach out for a chocolate.
You note with a small sense of defiance and dissatisfaction,
I don’t want this.
The hands don’t seem to find your thoughts on the subject very remarkable as they reach for another.
You could stop them, you suppose.
But the strength of your refusal needs to be stronger than the strength of their want.
And sometimes it’s not.
And that’s just the part of you you have to accept.
A surrender.
Because not every battle is yours to be won.
Because this body isn’t just yours.
It’s everyone’s.
.
.
My Foggy Blanket
The fog blankets me even as I walk.
I think sometimes that there is something wrong with this fog. And for as long as it’s with me, there is something wrong with me.
Even so, I don’t want it to leave.
Sometimes the fog blocks out the sun.
And sometimes it becomes quite grey. Like a fungus, it spreads.
It carries flashes in the dark.
It carries me back.
Even so, I don’t want it to leave.
I carry my fog with me always.
Willfully
I’ve been walking around a while now. I can’t say how long, exactly. Time seems to be stuck.
The fog here is so dense. I wonder, can you see it?
My eyes look over at you, and my lips smile.
I don’t suppose you could. That’d be something.
I know there must be a way out of here.
My mouth spills out a jumble words.
My nose picks up the smell of coffee as my body bends to sit.
But I take comfort in my fog.
My voice vibrates off my tongue.
I’m stuck. But maybe it’s willfully.
My fingers feel the string from the tea bag.
I’m stuck.
But maybe it’s willfully.
“The string is bumpy and soft.”
No.
My brain repeats the thought more forcefully, “The string is bumpy and soft.”
I said, “No.”
My brain doesn’t let up, “The string is bumpy. And soft. Do you feel the string?”
I watch my fog slightly dissipate as I concentrate on feeling the string. “I feel the string! Now, stop!”
My brain stops. My fog returns to me.
I breathe more easily.
My ears take in your words.
I’m stuck.
.
My chest laughs with you.
.
But it’s willfully.