i don't write anymore. i used to
think in colour before form, form
before picture, picture
before words. now i think in
noise. the only shade of it is white.
my professor tells me
the power spectral density of white noise is
a constant; every point is random, a thousand times
over, until they average into nothing.
i've always liked constants. but
i did not want this: time,
a standstill, life on pause. chaos
around me refusing respite. it is
constant, will not change, will not
regret. constantly loud, noise, it is white, incessant
seeps through the fade of black
everything in disarray; the formless
don't form words, the formless
form distance — slip through my fingers
slip into cracks. digging
only buries them deeper they want to rest but
will not die.
i can't write anymore. everything
repeats itself but cannot explicate there is
only noise. white. constant. i hear
all i want to say but
cannot tell and time
will not pass
no matter how much time
has passed.