Work Text:
The mind is a dangerous thing
where echoes learn to speak in my voice,
where every memory sharpens itself
on the edges of what I’ve lost.
It clings.
Not gently, not kindly
but with a grip that bruises thought,
holding pain like a sacred relic
and beauty like something already gone.
There are days it feels like drowning
in water that never existed,
thoughts folding into themselves,
a spiral with no center,
only the illusion of falling.
And still
there is that strange procession
a parade of colours that passed by,
bright as laughter in another life,
untouched by the erosion of time.
They return uninvited,
soft and shimmering,
like ghosts that refuse to haunt properly
too warm to fear,
too distant to hold.
What a thing,
to be built of both ruin and radiance,
to carry entire worlds
that no one else can see.
The brain is a dangerous thing
not because it breaks,
but because it remembers
how everything once felt.