Haha thanks, Brain! So cool.

Your fangs drip, detached from intention or consciousness.

You are blind to the destruction you sow, twisting allocation of power to momentarily veil yourself in the stole of submission and helplessness.

You lurk underfoot, envy coiling tightly in the muscle and sinew twitching within your slimy vessel.

Postured to strike.

Prepared to cower.

Fie, though your ego knows no shame. Too proud to acknowledge the blood staining your battered knuckles.

You lay claim to injury you cannot fathom beyond the fantasy of inflicting your will unto others.

Prostrate yourself, and be humble.

May you earn the purpose you so deeply crave through ultimate sacrifice and surrender.

May you submit to the universe with no ceremony, with not an eye to cast rain on your anonymous husk.

May the pain you've manufactured come back to roost in forgotten bones.

May the death of your earthly form take all evidence of your story into the void where your soul will reside.

To give grace and beneficial doubt

To move gently, with love and reverence

To keep aware of those rich currents of life, flowing through even the air itself

To linger in the depths of the quiet moments, to just feel

To interface with every miniscule nerve ending like stars beneath my skin

To lend value and weight to everything, thought and felt

We didn't ask to become —

Deep in playful dreams

Seafoam thick with ocean breath

A gentle salted breeze.

Perhaps a verdant crown

Will put restless souls at ease

Sunlight, thick and flowing honey

The warped, notched spoon that made it halfway through the disposal.

The wrecked journal, soaked in a spilled coffee, whose pages are illegible and irreversibly stained.

The ancient plastic watering can, weakened by the sun's rays and years of exposure to the elements.

A mirror whose surface has cracked and shattered, reflecting a jarring and distorted world.

For eighteen years, I had a purpose. A reason to drag myself up from the warmth of sleep and to stay vigilant in the care of my home.

I am no longer needed, here. No longer do I provide, or supervise. I do not comfort. I do not soothe or stroke or hum lovingly. I do not watch carefully, or scan diligently, or make keen-eyed observation. I do not mark appointments, or set alarms. I do not set aside for necessity, or stock up for circumstance.

I am told this is okay. I am told this is normal, and that I will recover. I am not told that I serve purpose. I am not told that I am needed. I am not thanked through beautiful eyes that hold stardust and Gaia's light, nor through the gentle rumble of satisfaction, nor through tiny chirps and trills. I am not greeted at the door. I am not followed with excitement. I am not soothed, or cradled, or watched. I am not relied upon. I am obsolete.

Aye, for some time it did fear the pills and potions, resigning itself to lurk around blurry edges and linger in the shadowed corners, but it made its mark long ago.

It poisons the wells and farmland, scrapes the shine from polished metal, and enrobes even the most vibrant pigments in a dull, sooty sheet.

The weight has stalled momentum, sapped the strength from muscle and sinew, and polluted the mind's view of life beyond the horizon.

But maybe the worst is when it never stops.

They all run together, like the dreams that topple over one another between barely perceived blinks in the smallest hours of the morning.

I am behind the glass quite often, of late; living vicariously through the suggestion of sensation I am offered by the strange creature that takes my post.