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autopilot

in an old kafka parable
there's a tale about the rooms inside the mind
the things in the rooms, lie unordered
unchecked, unregistered
while the rooms outside the mind
visible in the light of clear day
books, clothes, souvenirs from forgotten events
and name tags

announcing a person before their speech
their work before their face
their name before their grief

i used to be a person too
and had objects in my mind:

Thoughts took their trains
on regular paths, stopped
at stations known
Devices of parables
and metaphors, were plugged in, blinking
Books full of people and their stories
filled up the shelves
Many languages, like robes
hung by the door, and lay folded, dialects,
neatly into closets
And in the safe
some fears, under lock and key
And some keys, neatly hung
to take away to work.

at this time, someone else pilots
this room.

i can hear them fumble around the objects
that i made
feigning to be me
disusing, and casting about, the
things i had carefully laid, wanting
to continue to be
as me.

i can hear them speak
through my instrument
words of worthlessness, and disrespect
stabbing at all magic i've ever felt
with their bare claws

i hear them drawing blood
from the beauty that i have felt
i can do nothing, right now

my body remembers when it was not
on this autopilot.

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