the search

questions clamor beneath my skull, and the only place to turn for answers are these bent hands. black ink meets white page like knuckle to flesh and from between the tips of two pinched fingers there is an explosion, shards in every shade of gray falling like pieces of a shattered mirror. the echo of reflection becomes the pulsating beat of desperation, as every crevice of my sight is cluttered by the dismembered Perception, who offers herself up in any tone I wish. there is somewhere, I am certain, beneath all this desperation and noise, where Reality lounges across a velvet sofa whilst eluding hungry minds such as mine. there is some journey, I am sure, that will end in his revelation. there is somewhere, I am certain, beneath the thought-defying flesh and the sense-defying thought where the final and integral dimension of Self waits. there is here, where the moment has constrained me. there is a calendar that only turns once every thirty days, a clock that will not pass over any minute’s passing in pursuit of a sooner hour. there is here, a cage of tedious and unnecessary formality. a prison of breakfast and bedrooms. I am the white rabbit, and break the cell walls with triumphant abandon. thought collapses and erupts with speed. there are the limbs that grow weary from incessant aspiration, and the skin that bears shadows and lulls from uninterrupted consciousness. but the mind does not desire the reality of its vessel.