Act I: A Gallery of Enough
I’ve curated a gallery of could-have-beens and what-ifs, a mural of muted memories that stared blankly back from polite intervals, deemed too small, too insignificant to count.
I clocked the chore
and let the room
hold its breath
around me—
expected compliance.
Hands resting
like shelved instruments
that still remembered use,
knuckles stiff from waiting.
Surrounded by soft-stained scraps
of a thing
finished
and forgotten,
the kind
that doesn’t chill
the climate
or stir
a single seat.
The air
felt settled,
already decided,
dust drifting,
descending down,
doomed
to fall,
as if everything
that could be said
about the moment
had been said
earlier,
explained
in advance,
labeled
and logged,
then tucked away
by drawers
that turned their backs
to me.
Praise passed
like a pre-recorded message—
a practiced refrain,
familiar
and fixed,
received
without resistance,
without uptake.
Absorbed
like rain
into dry sand,
without
a visible scar.
I understood
the words.
They didn’t nourish
anything
that still needed me.
Time marched
in uniform,
eyes forward
boots ticking
out the hours.
Each task
a faceless soldier
already assigned
queuing
in quiet obedience,
asking
only to be completed
and placed
like petals
on a grave,
no one visited
lost in the done pile.
I stayed
locked in
through it all.
Attention
anchored.
Posture
poised.
Learned early.
Aware
of a slow,
insistent sense
that my effort
was circling
with no runway ready,
no light
laid for landing.
I sat
beside the day
as it walked
on
without me,
never turning
its head,
words passing,
explanations
repeating,
my attention
held in place
by the sense
that something essential
had been
skipped.
That was when
I noticed
the walls.
They had been forming
for some time,
vines veiled
like veins
behind vintage wallpaper,
stretching
into a long,
low-lit hallway,
frames appearing
one by one,
Polaroids
pinned
to the spine
of the hallway
I had finished,
then
abandoned.
I’ve curated
a gallery
of could-have-beens
and what-ifs,
a mural
of muted memories
that stared
blankly back
from polite intervals,
deemed
too small,
too insignificant
to count.
I wander
these halls
like Alice—
lucid,
and unsponsored,
awake
and paying attention,
mentally
malnourished,
and stomach
starved,
listening
closely.
Footsteps
following
tap.
Tap.
Tap.
TAP.
While the surface
stays sealed
and smooth,
waiting
for something
anything
to shatter
the settled silence
of the day
and send
the surface
spinning.
You’re reading an excerpt from Rule 42, an upcoming book of long-form narrative poetry that uses Alice in Wonderland as psychological metaphor. Growth, shrinking, trials, and absurd authority mirror the internal systems we learn to obey long after they stop serving us.
I’m sharing the book one act at a time, weekly, as it takes its final shape. If you want to follow the full arc as it comes to life, subscribe to Healing Thoughts. Follow the descent as it comes to life, one week at a time. Miss a week, and you miss a layer.
