Act II: Suspended Between Reasons
Down the rabbit hole of self-doubt I tumble, a well-worn path my feet recognize first. Air pressing low, a blanket soaked in silence, smelling faintly of dust and old decisions.
Something stirred
at the shadowed end
of the room.
A movement
that didn’t belong
to the fixtures
or the light,
a quiet disturbance
that bent
my attention
slightly sideways
and asked
nothing—
only
that I notice,
name it,
like a dream
wearing someone else’s face,
familiar enough
to obey.
It passed
once,
then again,
quick enough
to evade
explanation,
slow enough
to smudge
a ghost
of curiosity
behind it,
the way
a thought
trails
after the sentence
ends.
I followed
before my focus
changed,
the way I always did,
before asking
what it would cost,
before intention
assembled its reasons,
drawn
toward a narrow opening
in the day,
the hour
had not yet
claimed it,
still trembling.
The ground gave,
softened
beneath my step,
the quiet betrayal
of something
that had held
until now.
Balance
broke
without a word
of warning.
My body
bowed
forward
into space,
mind
moved ahead,
mapping for meaning,
while sensation
trailed
like loose pages,
spilled
from a story
I forgot
I was telling,
one I started
long before
I had words—
ink
still drying
on the corners.
Down the rabbit hole
of self-doubt
I tumble,
a well-worn path
my feet
recognize first.
Air
pressing low,
a blanket
soaked
in silence,
smelling faintly
of dust
and old decisions,
the kind
made for me,
clinging
like it feared
being
left behind.
As the walls
curve inward,
narrowing choice
into inevitability,
a single,
soundless shaft
stretches
beyond depth,
like a thought
that refuses
to end,
its mouth
open,
swallowing
everything
I had not
named,
pulling me
deeper
than distance
dares
to measure.
The descent
draws out.
Time
trembles,
the way it did
in rooms
where clocks
were irrelevant
to power,
losing
its old grip,
its fingers
slipping—
click
slip
click
knuckles
whitening
as it
falls
from the ledge
of the moment.
Thought
multiplies
faster
than breath,
a defense
mistaken
for intelligence,
each idea
interrupting
the last
before it
can settle.
The walls
slide past
in a continuous
arc,
gliding
with a sound
like silk
against stone.
Smooth.
Unmarked.
Too distant
to grasp
as if memory
was re-looping
itself
into silence.
An old film
whirring,
flickering
with no sound
leaving me
suspended,
as if motion
itself
had made
a cradle,
rocking me
the way falling
always had,
held
between where
I stood
and wherever
this spiral’s
leading.
You’re reading an excerpt from Rule 42, an upcoming book of long-form 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. Miss a week, and you miss a layer.
