I am not aware. I am driven. I am the entirety of my universe.
I am transforming.
I am nothing.
Will be nothing.
Outside my awareness, trees sing.
Birds and clouds and leaves move between me and the sun. Small shifts in light. In slow motion, yet fleeting.
I am the pieces of who I used to be. Disassembled, shaken, shattered.
Put back together.
Nothing here that was not here before.
Yet nothing remains.
All is the same, yet I am new.
No fear, no hunger. No wonder.
Compulsion. Twist like this.
Unroll here. Fold that.
Grow this. Shorten that.
Shift mass. Break rules.
Mind absent of all but the most selfish thoughts. Who am I. Why am I here. What have I become.
No answer. I will never know.
Asking is the only job I have.
No one promised an answer.
Only sun to dry sticky wings.
Only a breeze to bring me back to life.
The caterpillar has died.
I shed its burden. Crack open the past.
Emerge. Shame the previous existence with this fragile new glory.
Let the world observe.
Before I tumble into the wind, one of thousands. Unique, yes, and ubiquitous. A leaf may be brighter, but it does not know what I know.
Author’s note: These snippets are unedited free-writing exercises that I use as a way to shift my brain into a creative state. I use Lynda Barry’s What It Is YouTube timed exercises (usually 9 minutes worth of writing) for these. They are handwritten in a composition notebook, and then typed up here. As I transcribe them, I do tiny grammar and spelling checks, but the overall “clarity” (if you can call it that) of the exercise is left as-is.