Ink has clogged the nib of my pen. and no, this isn't a metaphor for pain. i have become an unreliable narrator, the narrative writes itself and no i have not tried to induce vomit. what do you call it when the storm never finds a release, what happens when the simmering brewing pot never spills and the fire burns blue and it has charred the the pot, is it called an inferno? The fire burns within itself concentrated to a singular point. To contain yourself within yourself and still have the concept of explosion exist. Concentrated to combustion, but the act remains abstraction. What happens when laws of physics fail you and nuclear fissions are fictitious, inventions of imagination. What happens if you can smell the rot growing in your stomach and the water grows putrid and still. Oh a stream that doesn't flow becomes a swamp and moss grows on top of it. Eutrophication but i never coaxed a sapling out of its seed. Eutrophication but its origin and end is marked by decay and fishes only float on this body of water. Yes, stagnant marshes covered in moss are a battlefield of how fast oxygen consumes itself and my lungs are rancid now. They have been rancid ever since i stopped letting the light in. The concept of overflow exists but my mouth is heavy and i am only 60 percent water. I have become an unreliable narrator but why does it matter when poets are liars anyway. The narrative twists itself. See i morph into something i am not. The concept of explosion exists but the fire burns blue, there is no fire at all. And i want to collect all this spillage tonight and bottle it up. I fear if i stop i ll never begin again and ink will forever choke the nib. My throat is coated with it, i should spit it out but i swallow it instead. Internalized concepts. My mouth feels even heavier now. I do not vomit. The excess salt does not find a release, consequentially the neural pathways are distorting and the chemical imbalance is evident now. Maybe i should've spat it out but language exists only as a concept. Not a vessel. There is no release. The rot in my stomach grows upward and i become a metaphor for decay. And see i am afraid if i stop i ll never begin again and stagnancy tertifies me. My mind is perpetually decaying so let me collect the moss that grows and preserve it in a glass jar. Let me be gentle with it and see moss is the third xerarch level of succession. Let me witness a new ecosystem emerge. I still cling to biology, bios, to the the ridiculous insistence of life. I am still there, stranded in time, frozen, no ecosystem has taken root. I have become a metaphor for decay but what if decaying is to beborn anew. i have become an unreliable narrator. The narrative fears itself. Today i wanted to write an ode to the infinite lattice of graphs that bend space and logic to improbable coherence but like an amputee i cling to the necrotic limb of word and how i am only 60% percent water. A film of ink coats my tongue. Language grows where it pleases and this is all there is to it. I have dissected myself and found nothing underneath, the nucleus has consumed Itself.