What exactly to feel.
I can’t remember how to feel.
It is foreign to feel.
I have been washed over and over by gentle waves of sun-sparkled water, time a stone sinking in a bottomless sea.
I am smooth, no surprises, no sharp edges to define me, I am uniform.
The jaggedness that once let me touch
is weathered away
slowly by droning dreams of submerged images,
distorted beneath ripples.
I look the same as my enemies and my friends, round and gray, dry and pale, in lieu of the washing of my origin.
Tell me what to feel.
Let me feel as they do.
I need to feel.
I have ascended, in a way, to join the billows of shade like me, of my own direction, of my own volition. I have been sold a system in which I can escape my form, and pretend to float above myself in foresight. I am young, fresh again, moist and senseless. But now I grow dark, pick up myself, and grind with the others. We grow electric in ourselves, and become loud with colossal motive.
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