Notes on Selfhood, Consciousness, and Other Matters

The lights: clinical.
The feeling: mythic.
The moment grows a halo.
Even doubt turns ceremonial.

I watch thought
rise like sea-foam
and vanish
into the blue work
of mind.

my mind builds altars
to clarity
then sacrifices clarity
to the altar

in the cave of the psyche
every echo is a message
from a self
still alive
still waiting

I looked for truth
like a needle
in a myth
and found only
the thread
I was using
to sew myself together.

the feminine psyche is a forest
you enter slowly
until it recognises you

the wound became
a doorway

I am the shimmer
between two meanings
that refuse
to hold still.

Silver logic
with a bruise of snowdrop feeling.
You call it composure.

I read the air
like augury—
and it keeps spelling
your almost

the path isn’t linear
it’s lunar
it circles back
to the same pain
with more light in your hands

The self is a fever
that dreams itself well
and calls it healing

The mirror keeps asking
what I’ve done with her—
the girl I used to be.
I tell her she’s sleeping
inside a poem.

I built myself
from the ache upward—
each bone humming
the memory of before.

reality feels agreed-upon
until a dream
unthreads the seams
and the world
breathes wider

consciousness:
a syntax of noticing
that cannot stop
editing

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