Jason Buchanon

Mirrors

What is me? How do I connect the strands of all the little neural networks in my head battling for dominance over this body?

Am I all the thoughts I don't identify with? Feelings, swirling this teacup mind: me, not me, me, not me? Together, not apart but not together all the same.

I steep in these moods till water runs cold. I don't drink, but spirits drift, their steam tendrils writhe in release. They call this ecstasy, I think, but it feels more like mirror shards piled up like that would make them whole. On a scale, no difference.

These rhythms don't feel as predictable as sines suggest. What is Forward Time? All I feel are moments unfixed, pearls unstrung.