We each have a poem written on the inside of our eyelids. It can only be read when we are still and our bodies are not plagued by small electricities. Mine reads thusly:
“What if you are not in fact sentient?
What if you are simply a bird too enamoured of his song?
And like a bird, if you do not carry yourself, you fear that you will fall to the earth and your hollow bones will be dust before they’re due.
But not being sentient brings a lightness with it and a letting go of the meaning of your song:
You carry nothing and that is now enough. Tiny flowers sprout tingling in the trenches of your wings.
Newly-laden with flora, you will fall to earth – and you do. And your hollow bones become dust. Whether due or not means nothing.
There is only the echo of a song.”