I feel broken, discontinued,
when the migraine aura strangens me,
but also delivered out of semantic chains
and an all too comfortable identity
with a loose fit,
let out of old time's sake
and a smelly common sense,
to experience the precipitous selflessness
of being per se,
lost between the signpost of a name
and the force of blind time,
all haste rendered obsolete,
duration taking its good time,
inertia of intention seeping out
like air from a balloon
or might and power out of a goblin
surprised by the rays from the morning sun
in old Nordic folklore
and The Tales of H. C. Andersen

The arrest of my day is a fait accompli;
the dispersing of my selfhood too;
the world becoming the strange event
that it really is

The estrangement frightens me
with its nameless certainty,
but when name and familiarity gushes back,
within the hour,
I may have gained a rare insight
into an open, “objective” sense of existence,
perhaps an approximation of the sensations of the deity
that the religious claim and uphold,
fleeing into the dusk of doom with no good excuse
and the collected human genome in a thimble

Yes, all explanations go outwards from our beings,
fashioned by how we are fashioned

Ask a beetle or a birch about worldviews!

No explanation ever arrives;
it is always delivered, made up on site,
which is what migraine auras can teach
from inside our brain tissue, full of stars,
say I, on the leeward of myself,
trying to remember