Growing

The various structures of my mind

are breathing, inhaling and exhaling,

small window spaces open, open and growing.

The walls I built with stone and wood, now

collapse - but in a wonderfully surreal way,

they tilt and sway, they groan under weight of

Derrida Lacan Foucault Freud Deleuze Guattari Saussure 

and my mind hurts sometimes, muscles straining to

comprehend, fists tight and jaw clenched, still waiting

for paradise as a place where I can sit. Sit, not stand,

not move, not constantly be moving, there is no comfort

in an understanding that opens windows and doors but also

breaks walls, hurtles the raw power of wind on the pillars,

nudges the very ground on which I stand until it expands

inwards, to a single dark point in the distance. My mind

hurts, yes, but my soul is nourished, it is bruised but it

grows, the various multiplicities of my mind refuse to be

flattened, and Eliot and Roy murmur deep in my ears, 

I understand things about beauty and love and life that

I never did. I see the world as darker than it ever was,

but I see stars. I lie down in oceans of light, and I trace

connections on the taut skin of sky, I create constellations,

I breathe, deep and unaware, deep, so deep that the world

decides in a flash to breathe with me, press thundering heart

against my flutter-bird chest, and inhale. Exhale. Inhale. 

I tremble at these various gladnesses.