I think; therefore, I am condemned,
To think it through this hypochondriac’s dilemma.
Reaching out with words for an approximation.
For some vague semblance of logical consistency.

Language is a sharp and polished razor blade.
I find myself upon the duller edge of its profound asymmetry.
Sawing, painfully and slowly, through a thread which leads me to the entrance.
Within this convoluted, branching corridor, the lights surround me.
My body is refracted to a multitude of loathsome silhouettes.

Photo creds: @saurbear