Pick your eyeball off your shoe: A poem

Layla Chamberlin/Staff

Once there was a blockade between time and other time
real time, it seemed did not mean anything at all
the experience of now was an accumulation of sensory input
the people on the street as malleable as apparitions
memories inconsequential

Looking in the mirror i found a face looking back at me
eyes spaced between my lateral head
finding my features and pointing thoughts into the mirage before me
being resounded into a symphony of nothing

img_1495i lost
my voice
as words fell out of my mouth or are excreted by my fingers
i looked at the sounds and letters
with question
what was their origin? i wondered
what metaphysical space above my head were they collected from?
a disconnection from my imagination
and my real world
, again,
so it goes img_1490

for these enumerated reasons, I avoided home and because these were the feelings, I attached to it last Christmas
My superstitions led me to believe that being in the same physical space where I decollected my memories and decomposed my thoughts, disassociation was inevitable
an anniversary of sorts.

But truth found otherwise.

Despite popular opinion, I always found Nietzsche to be an optimist.
nihilism the wake for epiphany
for ego death in sobriety.
The regret from meaning, allowed infinite freedom —
To be the conqueror of destiny, to be immortal in imagination, to swim in fear without being nauseated by its poisons

Books became tangible, people became animated unshadows and memories recollectable
Even in the place of home, a place of previous identity overexposure and subsequent blindness,
I found the collected memories in all of its objects to be nostalgic.
To not be mean to the “trivial” but to find its fantastic being.

I am but a neophyte to the world — reaching disassociation from the world does not mean arriving at its end and meaning —

Memories are elusive and facets of life have many modalities,
There need not be any objective measure of significance — there are no universal truths —
there is no right way to write this poem:
how to channel its thoughts from the ambient umbra of my brain space to your cerebellum.

We may only be the sojourners of our own personal truth — which may not be a truth at all but instead a fission of an idea
Make love to the nuance
Coddle ambiguity
Lionize frivolity
And finally, remember your manifestations to be real, and to take your seat in body and mind — even on the cusp of a new year, new time, a renaissanced identity —
For that is your only home.



Contact Layla Chamberlin at [email protected]

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