As though my brain freezes into nothing,
As though my life's purpose hangs around nothing,
As though my breath develops a voice, pace and texture,
I often get a volatile sense of nonsense.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
The nothingness shapes into a void;
Devoid of existence, yet embodying
A volatile sense of loss.
The loss is ornamental.
It encompasses an abstraction
Of the convergence of time and space
That ceased to exist in the forward time.
Ah! Existence! Not of a solid body,
But an image of the mind,
A perceived notion of truth,
A volatile sense of reality.
Reality in the hybrid world is hard to decipher.
It's a deliberate selection of experience,
And one testifies them to push into reality.
It's a volatile sense of nonsense.
