A Thousand Spoked Wheels

5/10/2025

When I think about loneliness, I turn my ire to the imperfect parts of myself, which are my only means of communicating that self to others. I think of stripping naked, then peeling my skin, then pulling my skull apart, and I envision some non-existant glowing light beneath that is “truly me”.

Have I experienced enough to still believe in that singular, indivisible light of a soul which I am? Have I not felt these parts of me which answer to no master, whose memories sit distinct from mine when they jump at shapes in the dark?

In the spotlight of my waking consciousness, a thousand spoked wheels turn and I perceive the limbs for a short time before they sink back into the darkness. When they return, it is to bring along something from that abyss, and I am ever given the opportunity to take their gifts and say:

“This is mine, this was always in me.
It did not appear from the black.
It is no mystery to me.
I understand what I am.
I know where I begin and end.”

Is that true? If not, then can I call these wheels mine? Who placed them there? Or are they mine because I percieve them? Is that which I see “mine”?