It seems like I’m looking at a nice, colorful painting. I’m part of it. And yet, I am still here. I have not left… Nowhere. Not yet. A painting… a sight… places… Before my eyes, there’s a dance of images, of places… I can only see jiffs of them. If I could only stop. Here is a mountaintop, wind playing in my hair, sun on my eyelids, musty ground in my palm, grass caressing my skin… I do remember that.
I come from afar. A long path I have traveled.
Maybe this is what I was looking for… or are they only words? Words or feelings?
It’s too dark in here. I need some light. I need a mirror. I don’t remember me anymore. I have to find my image again. I need a bit of light.
Maybe if I struggle enough it will come back to me. The way I was, the way I looked when I saw myself in the mirror. I will imagine that there is a mirror in front of me. I can see myself in its reflection. Two eyes, lips, hands, feet… What for? Hands to gather things around me until I clog myself? Things that I don’t possess anymore? Feet to travel places of wonder and beauty… of which I can’t remember a thing now? What is the point of all this? I didn’t need hands, nor feet, nor body… It should have been only me. Me. What is me?
Here we go again. Same questions.
Who am I?
Excerpt from The Odyssey of the Thought, a poem in prose belonging to the volume Poems from a Monster:
Jasmine's Laboratory 
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