Messy Wires

Prose Poem

Image taken from Pinterest

I have noticed that sometimes my fan spins faster than usual on the same speed. Often, when I look into the mirror, I think my eyes are black but they are just very dark brown. Everything I've ever known/learnt/believed could turn out to be a lie at anytime. God, can you hear me? Mom, do you love me?

(They're always back to back. I'm afraid I mix up the two. Does it matter if I disobey both?)

I don't seem to recognize myself sometimes. I have a question. What makes a human better than another—a consciousness devoid of sin or a tempted hand kept under control? How should I define myself?

(This is quite important, so I can fill out a form for my college application.)

Isn't this prose/poem all over the place? Ah, I've lost the hang of it. I haven't written in ages. However, I live through poetry while being very ordinary like cutting a mango while feeling the juice drip out & unusual like slitting a sheep’s throat while watching the blood spill out.

(I do not understand why I believe I must be extraordinary to write poems when the best metaphors live in simple or eerie things.)

Well, as long as we're talking about mangoes & sheep and a knife plunging through skin & flesh, how different is it to kill a man from a mosquito? How do vegans full heartedly believe that plants don't feel pain? Sometimes, because of a surge in power supply (or rather an adequate supply of power, meaning previously the fan was not moving at the correct speed but slower, so perhaps the term is: “a lack thereof”), my fan spins… differently.

When plants get enough stimuli, they seem to function better; a result of sudden surge of power. Everything that exists is energy—transferred, reflected, experienced, transformed. So, who can be so sure that plants don't feel pain? Even if they don't, I've recognized myself as a bad person.

(Because if I can pluck a flower, I can slice a fruit, I can kill a mosquito, I can kill a butterfly, I can kill a goat, and I can someday hold a the knife to man’s throat.)

When I look into my black eyes, I am satisfied. I can love a pair of dark voids—I can say that with confidence from experience. So, aesthetism has never been a concern of mine—a moth or a butterfly—the only thing I absolutely won't try to kill is one that can fight back.

(Who are we to decide which life deserves more to continue or not? Why is the stardust inside a rat less meaningful than the brutality inside us? Isn't the most morally correct behaviour to treat all equally?)

Perhaps, I am not such a bad person.

(God, do you agree? Are you still listening? Did you ever start?)

- Bleh 👅

Ps. I… don't have such a good feeling about this post, but I'mma hit the button anyway (>.<)! If anyone tried to attack me for going after veganism or some bullshit, they've lost the point of this piece.