The Algebra of a Dissolving Self
In the beginning, we were handed
hearts as compasses
and dreams as roadmaps.
Told the universe would open
like an oyster whispering secrets
to anyone who pressed an ear against its shell.
But somewhere along the way
the shell grew teeth.
It began chewing on my thoughts,
grinding desire into a fine, glittering dust
that coats the inside of my skull.
Now 2026 arrives
not as a year
but as a creature made of humidity.
June dragging its wet, sticky breath
across my spine,
blowing bubbles of anxiety
that float up,
burst,
and rain down
in tiny electric shocks.
My emotions have become a parliament of ghosts,
each one arguing in a language
I only half understand.
They pull levers,
flip switches,
set off alarms
Hairātrigger reactivity
disguised as good intention.
Somewhere beneath this wreckage
lies a nest of insecurities,
curled like sleeping animals
that wake when I breathe too loudly.
I donāt want to feed them anymore.
But the heart keeps chanting
its ancient spell:
listen
listen
listen
while the mind begs
for a quieter equation.
So I ask the cosmos for a formula:
how much gravity
should emotion have
before it collapses into a star?
How much weight
before it becomes a black hole?
I want the algebra
for tasting the universe
without dissolving
into its variables.
A way to walk among
the tangents,
molecules,
atoms
without becoming
one more particle
lost in the drift.
I want to solve for x
without losing myself
in the infinite.
