In This World, Not of It.

All to be felt should be felt from the heart.
The Origin.
A Supposition.
The gut... groaning.
The union of rawness with the dry earth beneath my knees.
Where the pink of heaven meets the green of land.
No fog.
No time for fog.
No room for fog.
Tender nerves tingle with expectation,
Or cut,
Leading to the slow arrival of resignation.
Either way, it's felt.

All to be felt should be felt from the heart.
But I can't.
Or I won't.
Doesn't matter which.
Either way, the fog seeps through my inviting pores.
The fog turns into oil.
Feed the machine.
Polish the machine.
The gears in the left hemisphere are making peace with those on the right.

I can't be pregnant of the mind.
My pituitary cannot act as placenta.
My medulla cannot act as an umbilical cord.
That type of housing is not fit for the child.

It's all that makes sense.
For now, I will continue to birth nothingness.