Out of Mindless

by Alexander Kretzschmer

We don’t think. No,

really. I think we don’t.

We stimulate to simulate

living, thinking, feeling.

Am I projecting?

If I think the thoughts I don’t think I ought,

does it mean my thoughts are naught?

Are my thoughts bought by what’s hot?

Should I think what I think we all think, or not?

If I think those things thin my thoughts,

are they wrong? Am I distraught?

How can I think the thoughts

I’m not thinking?

So many words can mean so little.

Something little could mean a lot.

What means little may mean too much.

What I mean isn’t worth enough.

I’m filled to the brim with nothing.

I miss the sound of my thoughts.

I inject imaginations —

I think? No,

I don’t anymore.

That much I’m sure.

My head is a war.

My brain is torn

apart. A part

remains hidden

from the deforestation of my mind.

When I try to run, I only hide

myself from me. And I

don’t want this. I don’t

want this! I want to be new.

And known. And awake. And alive!

And...

I need a minute to think —

I need Truth.

I know where this ends;

from where it begins.

I planted a seed.

Or someone else did.

One little seed to sprout,

and grow, and extend,

and repopulate my head.

In a new forest,

I finally frolic in fresh fields,

finding familiar fantasies

fixing my feelings:

from crying to flying.

I can uncurl. I can unfurl.

Unconfused.

Found and new.

Cracking out

of this shell of hell.

Crying again,

because I’m out

when I expel myself

and dwell in

You.