Written while contemplating the force of Emily Dickinson’s poem, I dwell in Possibility — (#466). Reading her poem this morning, I could not escape how different my experience of the world is from hers. At the same time, despite the differences, I recognize in Dickinson an antisocial tendency that seems analogous to one that constantly threatens to tear my world apart. This poem gave me a sense of both hope and warning… that the desire to close yourself off from (at least parts of) the world can be both constructive and destructive. The following is a reactionary riff on #466.]

I tread through Possibilities—
No single space called Home—
Just rented doors and Windows—
To peek out on the World—

Entombed by glass devices—
My addict itch for more—
Has scratched out baseless basement depths
For dopamine Relief—

Requests and likes — Sick mantras —
For Occultation — This —
These tappings forge my metal cuffs
To live Tweet Earth’s heat death—

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