To think clearly is not to see,
but to negotiate, offering hypotheses as currency,
receiving contradictions as change.
Thought leaks like light through smoke,

illuminating nothing and everything.
Knowledge combusts in fragments,
each glowing briefly before collapsing
into questions we cannot answer.

Logic trembles, remembering its own collapse,
yet steps forward, compelled by the gravity
of reason’s illusion, sliding beneath intuition,
every argument a city built on impossible fault lines.

Philosophy spins like a compass in a vacuum,
pointing always toward the impossibility
that thought might not be contained by thinking.
Ontology is a house whose walls are furniture,

rearranging themselves while we watch.
Identity splits the spectrum of experience,
a prism missing faces,
memory a labyrinth of absent doors,

less a container than a magnetic field
of inconsistencies, attracting
experiences it cannot hold
and repelling truths it cannot stomach.

The self knots in wind—
each unraveling a revelation,
each tightening a deception,
no hand able to hold it.

We inhabit a world we misknow.
Being is written on the inside of an eye,
legible only when you blink
at precisely the wrong moment.

Consciousness drifts like a fire that burns
inside a mirror, igniting reflections that will
never reflect themselves fully, yet insist on
combusting anyway.

The world might be a question we have misheard
in a dream, and consciousness the trembling echo
we mistake for an answer.
Existence folds like an accordion,

inhaled by attention,
collapsed by perception,
a poem in echoes, where every line
repeats itself differently.