Cue the wake, she jazz’n up another day morning sunrise calls for a sit and bake read-out-loud, for the spirit ears my thoughts to take Have you thought about the poetics of your existence, how the rush of time is an illusion for them closed eyes? won’t you step out and see the world from a sci-fi. Bells in your ears, songs summon tears submit yourself to the uncanny for a good time only through a mirror you gon’ study the reflection and figure out where the truth lies You know there’s a difference between living and getting by? the deeper we’re made to see on the screens, the more we know but we let it get by the more we know, the more we are in debt to the EYE advancing to see it all, but we lettin’ shit slide... She jazz’n up another day to the sunrise fears claim your consciousness, hooked at the bottom of the sea Your freedom is make believe till you unhook your lip and you deep dive Swim back to, will you make it to the surface? sunkissed in the poetics of ideas pouring from the collective into your big eyes Sleep at the bottom of the sea or wake wake wake.
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“And since in all research concerning the imagination, we must leave the realm of facts behind, we know perfectly that we feel calmer and more confident when in the old home, in the house we were born in, than we do in the houses on the streets where we have only lived as transients.” – from The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard. In chapter 2 of Bachelard’s poetic and philosophical exploration, “House and Universe,” several writers contribute their notions of intimacy about a room or a house. These spaces are perceived as psychological diagrams, guiding the writer to narrate these spaces as such. In reading these intimacies, I, too, found myself in my own analysis of the room I drowned in.
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