Waking.
No room yet.
No me.
Just—
something completely undefined.
Not nothing—activity.
Not something formed by language either.
Then
like searching.
And like trying to swim
toward a surface.
A decided direction.
This moves first.
Then,
words.
They’re faint at first.
Like hearing talk from another room.
Or trying to tune a radio frequency from static.
They become questions, forming.
Where is this.
What time.
What day.
Monday.
A recognition—yes.
Click.
Monday—yes,
the day I lift weights.
And with that,
I feel myself arrive, organized.
Click again.
Awake.
—
A few seconds.
Seen a handful of times.
Before I arrive,
something is already there.
Alive.
Un-orientable.
Then it’s
felt as too much.
Whatever this is
right before I am.
Whatever this is.
It tells me I am and, also, I am not.
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Related Reading:
Off The Tree — A steady succession of I’s.
Wearing It — Something already taken as me.
It Comes After — What forms, then gets named.