The Red Goo

And then I turned older a little
looked back on what it was
I had missed
I was a mind full of reach
circling across
the whole plain
in between people talking
I was taking my swing too far
across.
I was not your crystal loving spiritual mother
and I didn’t find god, but
I burdened my cross
was mad about it
was sour about it
lost and cried through it
knew and laughed about it
the tears were salty and
I collected them in a wine glas
and drank them every weekend.
I gave up.
Gods and deities, dark whispers
apostles demanding “Believe it”.
There is a third way
that is what I thought.
What if I am not life;
consciousness isn’t
and just a subsystem of it
the kobold that does the trick over night
so the part
that encapsulates life is satisfied?
So the crying goo
in the empty room
buried under layers
of tripping rooms
in the last layer of my brain
can whip around satisfied
in a grinning loom?
What if understanding life
is not that hard
if you accept that you are not the whole thing;
even in your body
you are just a part.
The Problem riddling,
solution finding
apparat.
Say it in your head.
Life is not hard to understand
it wants to preserve itself in a state.
You feel better for a while
or heavier
your punches have more weight
then you forget
come back
if you fall apart.

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