Everything in this House is a Theory

An abstraction, with very little basis in reality. But the power of its logic is stifling. That it is, how it came to be, that it will persist, are accounted for; the senses agree. Nevertheless, knowledge is lost and confidence aloof. Thereby a haze smothers you, leaving you awash in your own chemistry. Blood rushes to the head. Spores dance, invisible, in the breath.

The past stretches to inconceivable lengths, a road you wander endlessly. You hope that one day it will be conceivable, that you will conceive of it. You are discouraged. You break walnuts against a walnut tree to see how they fall; intuit crawls out of them clumsily. You grab with stubby fingers, but it slips into the woods. No luck. You remain petrified, half asleep.

The critics disagree. One says it doesn't matter; the other says it is all that matters. They wake you periodically to remind you their position, slap you on the back, say goodbye.

The earth is shifting inward, evening out. It makes more sense, you think, as concentric rings form. Your ideas are ground to dust in the quaking. Once, you scribbled them in the earth to be devoured under trampling feet. Now, it seems a pointless burden.

Rarely, every letter is a stone; rarer, it is a feather. To write is to lift it; to be written is to fly. Is the weight wrought of anxiety, or narcissism? Who are you looking to fool?

I've gotten into politics during the pandemic. Ideologically, I am egocentric. I don't consider it selfish; no one knows except you. I've heard it's a growing movement. You might want to look into it. I sometimes wonder how many of us really believe.

This morning I woke up to several missed assignments. Still tired, I made coffee and set up my computer. I must be better, or I won't get a job; if I work hard enough, I might be a stenographer. I'll give you some advice: take an axe to the walnut tree; tear up the old, worn-out road; rake the ringed earth with your clawed hands. It is impractical to wonder.