Seismology

The summer before tenth grade, I tried to turn my bedroom into an ideological Petri dish. Used Post-Its and song lyrics as growth medium, pipetted my dreams onto sheets of graph paper, let premises and poems grow like bacteria all over the walls. Like a spinning top, I gained momentum without going anywhere, my lunacy filling notebooks and megabytes on my laptop. Sometimes when you’re moving really fast, everything outside you turns into a blur. You can focus on things in your frame of reference for a little while, but even then, they exist independently of any external anchors. You’re trying to be the best and do it all and crush the competition and you end up losing track of everything in the process. Thus, the departure of reason: rambling and incoherent prose-poetry, characters walking down what is either a hallway or an aorta, Freudian slips littering each paragraph. I look over the remnants of those years with a combination of sadness and amusement. I’ve still got a few shoe boxes of used Post-It notes from the Petri dish summer, and together, they form an impossible puzzle, the promise of a whole that never existed. It doesn’t exist now, it never will, but I still forget that sometimes, and without thinking, I start to spin faster and faster, unraveling from reality, the bacteria of dreams flaring inside me again.



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