I am not my work of art
I am not my piece of music
I am not my words
I am not my poetry
I am not a glorious sunshine
You cannot put your finger on me
You cannot untangle the scribbles
You can only dissolve
It’s a good day to hide
It’s always a good day to die
I want to hide my face and die
I am Ibn Rishdi
I am not great
I want to dissolve into
I keep visualizing my neck in the noose. I see myself hanging from the ceiling, swinging like a pendulum. (I also hear squeaking sounds.)
Tick tock… I’ve been dead for a while. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it.
Whether I am lying in bed at night (like now), or I am on my way to work, I constantly feel the presence of death.
I try to fill my time, to work all the time – as an attempt to get my mind off things. But then I have to lie in bed again, or drive to work, or take a shit, and I remember.
“There is no escape, is there? Here you are visiting me again, uninvited friend. What do you want?”
And here are my fingers, tap dancing on the touch screen, expressing.
“I will live to write another word.”