Sentience: a plague of small electricities

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.”


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