I'm like a bug in the bathroom when you flick on the lightswitch at 3 a.m.
frozen in the fluorescent truth of what I really am
scuttling between porcelain moments trying to make sense
of how the shadows keep rearranging themselves into faces I used to know
while the mirror multiplies my mistakes into infinity
and every dripping faucet is keeping time with my heartbeat
counting down to sunrise when I'll pretend none of this happened
but right now in this moment I'm just anatomy and regret
spinning circles on cold tile wondering
if anyone else is awake in this city
watching their reflection fragment into somebody else's memories
while the morning grows like mold in the corners of consciousness

I have a way with the ladies they say but the ladies are actually origami cranes folding themselves into question marks whenever I enter a room while the ceiling fan spins detective novels into the air and I'm pretty sure my coffee mug is judging me for being the kind of person who thinks he has a way with the ladies which is really just another way of saying I collect shadows in mason jars and pretend they're meaningful conversations the truth is the ladies have a way with reality that I'll never understand because they exist in dimensions where my noir fantasy dissolves like sugar cubes in rain and maybe that's the point maybe I'm just a metaphor having an existential crisis in a poem that thinks it's cleverer than it actually is while somewhere a real detective is solving real mysteries but here I am collecting punctuation marks like alibis

Through the lens, I watch myself
watching him watching himself
scrub the infinite white bowls
in Shibuya Station's basement level.

"This is cinema," whispers the me
that isn't me, as his blue-gloved hands
move like butoh dancers across
the ceramic galaxy of toilets.

Frame 2, 394:
His reflection multiplies in every surface,
twelve versions of duty
in a public restroom mirror
while salarymen pretend
he's made of negative space.

"Keep rolling," says the director
who might be my conscience
or just another synapse firing
in the dark theater of my skull.

The camera catches him practicing
English on lunch break, rehearsing
"The weather is nice today"
to an audience of ****** cakes
while I practice watching him
practice being watched.

Sometimes the film grain blurs
and I can't tell if I'm the viewer
or the viewed or the viewfinder
documenting this infinite loop
of seeing and being seen
in the fluorescent purgatory
of other people's waste.

Frame 10, 957:
He bows to the toilet
like it's a small god
of porcelain and pipes,
and I bow to the screen
that contains him
containing himself.

Today I leveraged my core competencies
by successfully utilizing the office microwave
without burning my lunch
(#grateful #blessed #thoughtleader)

My strategic pivot from
desk-facing-wall to desk-facing-window
has resulted in a 47% increase
in pretending to be productive
while watching pigeons mate.

Excited to announce
that my morning anxiety attack
has been optimized
for maximum efficiency:
now hyperventilating
in only 2.3 minutes
(a personal best).

Thrilled to share that my
"crying in bathroom stall" initiative
has attracted key stakeholders
from Accounting and HR,
creating synergistic opportunities
for collaborative breakdown sessions.

Looking forward to disrupting
the traditional paradigm
of actually doing work
by innovative implementation
of staring at spreadsheets
while thinking about death.

#OpenToOpportunities #HumbledAndHonored
#ThrivingThroughChaos #AlwaysGrinding
#ThoughtLeadershipIsMyPassion

Posted 1h ago

morning and I make your coffee twice today once
from that hollow space where I need you to need
me where my hands shake with the weight of
tomorrow's promises where every clink of spoon
against cup sounds like warning bells sounds like
run sounds like hide but later after the sky
broke open after I remembered how to breathe
after finding that quiet place beneath my ribs
I make it again same beans same water same
motion but now watch how the steam rises like
prayer like possibility like the way light
bends through windows and I'm no longer
trying to save us with caffeine and careful
measurements no longer trying to fill the
spaces between words with sugar and heat now
it's just this just my hands moving through
morning air like birds through summer sky like
thoughts through silence like love through time
and maybe this is what they mean when they
say it's not what you do but where it comes
from where it comes from where it comes from
this place of open hands this place of let go
this place of already enough already whole
already here already here already here

Day one: white walls
white mask
white light
white noise
in my head

My phone glows until my eyes hurt
then doesn't glow at all
anymore
at all.

tap
tap
tap-tap
on the radiator pipe
on the window frame
on my teeth

People grow from corners
like mold
like dreams
like friends
They dance without feet
They speak without sound
They fade by morning

thump
THUMP
THUMP-THUMP
on the desk
on the chair
on my chest

Through the wall
a fist pounds back:
"STOP!"
"STOP!"
"please
stop."

But then:
tap
tap-tap
comes the answer
comes the echo
comes the dance

Two strangers
in separate cells
finding rhythm
in white noise
in white light
in white walls

I watch puddles form
in parking lot craters,
count the ripples
from each raindrop's fall

my reflection fragments
into twenty versions
of the same tired face
attempting miracles

someone once said
walking on water
wasn't built in a day
like it was supposed to help

I keep trying anyway
watching my feet sink
in these midnight puddles
building impossible bridges
one step at a time