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#liquefaction
Sometimes it feels like my mind liquefies and drifts somewhere unmoored. The room begins to pearl at the edges. Wallpaper sweats into watercolor blooms, the ceiling lamp hemorrhages amber pollen, and every object acquires the viscosity of something remembered underwater. I sit very still while the evening dilates around me. The radiator clicks like wet arthropod limbs. A glass of juice ferments beside the bed, its surface lacquered with the faint metallic scent of pennies pressed into the tongue. Outside, rainwater sluices through the gutter system with the sound of silk unraveling from a throat. My body becomes increasingly theoretical. Hands first. Then the jaw. Then the entire architecture of my name. I feel myself dissolving by teaspoons into the upholstery of the hour. Thoughts stretch into translucent filament, gelatinous and luminous, like deep sea organisms surfacing too abruptly through pressure they were never designed to survive. The mirror across from me cannot retain my reflection consistently. It blurs. Reconstitutes. Blurs again. Sometimes I think consciousness resembles a fruit left too long in summer heat. The skin intact. The interior quietly collapsing into nectar. Music leaks through the wall in muffled fibrillations, basslines thick as petroleum. The sound enters me slowly, fills the ventricles with black syrup, turns memory into a liquid medium through which old grief drifts half-awake. There are moments where I can no longer distinguish exhaustion from transcendence. The carpet ripples softly beneath my feet. Streetlights smear themselves across the windowpane like gold cosmetic powder dissolved in milk. Everything appears touchable yet impossibly remote, as if the world has been sealed behind aquarium glass and I am observing it from the ocean floor. Even language begins melting at the corners. Sentences lose skeletal integrity. Vowels elongate into pale ribbons. Meaning slips its vertebrae and slides soundlessly into the dark. Still, there is something strangely exquisite about becoming unfastened from oneself. To feel the psyche soften. To feel identity loosen like wet ribbon from a gift box. To become briefly indistinct, mercurial, mouthless, adrift beneath the narcotic fluorescence of another sleepless dawn.
0
6d ago
May 29, 2026 at 3:29 PM UTC
poetriesgrave
Liquefaction
Sometimes it feels like my mind liquefies and drifts somewhere unmoored. The room begins to pearl at the edges. Wallpaper sweats into watercolor blooms, the ceiling lamp hemorrhages amber pollen, and every object acquires the viscosity of something remembered underwater. I sit very still while the evening dilates around me. The radiator clicks like wet arthropod limbs. A glass of juice ferments beside the bed, its surface lacquered with the faint metallic scent of pennies pressed into the tongue. Outside, rainwater sluices through the gutter system with the sound of silk unraveling from a throat. My body becomes increasingly theoretical. Hands first. Then the jaw. Then the entire architecture of my name. I feel myself dissolving by teaspoons into the upholstery of the hour. Thoughts stretch into translucent filament, gelatinous and luminous, like deep sea organisms surfacing too abruptly through pressure they were never designed to survive. The mirror across from me cannot retain my reflection consistently. It blurs. Reconstitutes. Blurs again. Sometimes I think consciousness resembles a fruit left too long in summer heat. The skin intact. The interior quietly collapsing into nectar. Music leaks through the wall in muffled fibrillations, basslines thick as petroleum. The sound enters me slowly, fills the ventricles with black syrup, turns memory into a liquid medium through which old grief drifts half-awake. There are moments where I can no longer distinguish exhaustion from transcendence. The carpet ripples softly beneath my feet. Streetlights smear themselves across the windowpane like gold cosmetic powder dissolved in milk. Everything appears touchable yet impossibly remote, as if the world has been sealed behind aquarium glass and I am observing it from the ocean floor. Even language begins melting at the corners. Sentences lose skeletal integrity. Vowels elongate into pale ribbons. Meaning slips its vertebrae and slides soundlessly into the dark. Still, there is something strangely exquisite about becoming unfastened from oneself. To feel the psyche soften. To feel identity loosen like wet ribbon from a gift box. To become briefly indistinct, mercurial, mouthless, adrift beneath the narcotic fluorescence of another sleepless dawn.
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