Before I Arrive
Before Anything Becomes Me
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.
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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.