My life is not a curation
of well defined breaks
and picture perfect moments
It is an entanglement of
half cooked ideas,
and unwritten words
long lost memories and
childhood unlearnt.
It is the colloquial
chest hair that the mosquito
can’t escape, a web of
emotions and rationality
at play.
Somedays are raw unedited B roll
a cat purring on a sunny balcony
Others like a formula one race
hours blending into millisecond cachophony.
And there are the ones in between
where I struggle and fall
harder to categorise
would fool a machine.
I’ve long held it as a weakness
to be broken and show it
to be human and mistake it
Because process is for books
and as products we must pretend
to have no exceptions or flaws
cos if we accepted our blindspots
wouldn’t that be a shame.
We’re all grainy pictures in a time of super resolution
blind enough to see everything
for what it’s not
and hide behind our own fallacies