There is an invisibleness that comes with being me. It is unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, each time rising in me somewhat reformed, yet, still the same.

I am that I am, and then I am not. I am this woman, and I am this man-woman combined beneath. I am the sun and the land, the air that I take in, and the waste I eliminate, through various means: my breath, my being, the cocoon I will once be.

As in time rewinding and returning me to the state of unreason, where logic is dismissed and gently slides out the regions of the dissipating mind. And here I shall be the cocoon erased, the beginning point and the end, as one, withered-not in my shell of fragility exposed, but open to the region beyond the space that once played host to the shadowed cage of self.

I see this. I know this. I see that there is not time, there is not space, there is nothing but what the imaginary state of being creates. And in this I wobble some, in this reckoning of something I cannot feasibly grasp, but that still continues to trickle through my outstretched fingers—as water to the thirsty—absorbed, understood, drifting and disappearing again.

I am what I am, and yet I am not. And for any man to see this, to really see this, is to feel lost and isolated at the start, and still very much alive in a world of spinning chaos. To see this, is to behold all the answers and construct all the abstract causeways, and in the same seeing to know that all paths lead to none other than the original place of standing.

I am this grand inventor seeping of potentiality and ideas, with no place to release, less I return to the place of exact thought again—the chasing of tail, spinner of tales, in one. I am circular in my meanderings, forced by my uninterrupted inhibition to want to glide out of this discomfort onto the ice of discovery, only to discover the waters have broken open, and I am once more drowning in a place of illusion, unfounded in appearance and ruptured of all substantial reality.

It is eruption, in the sense I can detect the elements of my own self fading into obliviousness of juxtaposed thoughts. How I be such an explosive touch of truth, and still bathe in denial of the actualities.

I am. I am. I am. I try to decipher these words, and they feel like nuggets, gold nuggets, in my mouth. I chew and they are pebbles. I cough and they spurt out into the world in which I know nothing of. I am here and I am not, and from where I be, I watch as the doorman and the moving pictures transport within and without, following the opening and closing of the door. No leader, only the revolving avenue exposed, erased, exposed, erased…stepping through a labyrinth of uncertainty, and certain dismissal of what is.

How to live in such a constant state of recognition, and to believe in anything as subtle as hope, eludes the part that hides. And, still, she waits, this fire-driven wand of desire, pleading and placating to the eternity to expand, as the womb rewound, to suck her in, some warship turned peaceful, the latches speared open forever, her essence returned to the source that dropped her so sparingly to the tumbling tremors of disemboweled earth.

I crumble here in my universe forgotten, in a land that is not mine, is not home, is not where I am meant to be. How I sink in the soils of stench, forging through the forest of the misshapen shadows in search of familiar. My wings, soiled, by the ash of my own tears, drowning in the grey-stone of my weary heart. I am not made for this land of make-believe, where the games rip apart at the tender souls. I am not made for this game at all. And still I am here, in this broken place, searching for the answers, through the kaleidoscope of illusion torn through.