he watches himself from outside of his skin.
he stares intently, thinking there is a light in
it just must be hidden. he sidesteps away from
the shadow of the trees looming behind him.
the trees of life he almost expects to abandon –
the way he feels.
the feeling inside of his chest.
it's what happens when you constrict
time and space by the force of emotions.
reality is distorted in the same way that
large bodies in this universe distorts space.
how does he deal with this?
how does he deal when he himself is the cause
of the distortion? did einstein think of this?
what if he called stephen hawking now?
what would he say?
it's happening again; the thoughts.
he remembers that he is supposed to breathe.
three slow deep breaths and he remembers he is sitting
on a cushion on the floor of this small room.
with three breaths as if each were a brushstroke,
he lets the cascade of thoughts splash over him
and realizes they are just thoughts.
*this is a repost of a piece that was in prose form earlier