sponge

I close my eyes. And look straight ahead. It’s not black but multi muted in darks with redish hue. Sometimes I can see patterns that unfold themselves against mahogany. A pattern in yellow ice cascading to rust shoots from a corner of one of my eyes. My left eyelid is normally where stories begin. Is this because I am left handed or because I have learnt to read starting from the left side? How much of what I see is in relation to my experience, both individual and under the hospices of the great collective unconscious? Do eyelid images extrapolate from our social indoctrination too? What are my eyes doing, what are they really seeing? It’s just the insides of my eyelids, some flappy tender foreskin for the iris that helps keep the glass lubricated. I know that science can explain it. Science can explain how the brain tells the neurons what to do. How the brain invents the I. The brain is my favourite spongy matter. For it is credit to my brain that I have an I.


Or is it? The I the brain, the eye; one without the others? The images that I see are perhaps just a conglomeration of memes that have found a good home in this dusted blue grey with highlights of pink. This spongy mass is what the I calls home. Does it matter that I am nothing if I am something to me? Even if me doesn’t exist it exists in my I as long as I am alive. There is at least continuity. Maybe my I is not real but at least it makes sense when it tells a story. My nothing is something to me. My I can figure out from a to be to g to z even if it isn’t real even if I am nothing I still have feelings even if I am nothing my I still needs to love, be loved, search love, make love. .



No matter if there is not really an I, that I don’t really exist, even while not existing I can still close my eyes and look at the patterns on my eyelids. Nobody can stop me from seeing things from within. Not even your I. Sure, sponges come from the sea but the I too, lives in sponge and this sponge lives inside of me.