I Am Not A Shape
As I rode my bike home last night I felt my descent as the slow rising of my surroundings.
Inside my stomach, something knew that I had motion, but my eyes and skin felt fooled. I was listening to music so the wind’s normal dominant aesthetic component—sound—had undergone a phenomenal reduction. The air that I moved through felt like the same temperature as the air inside me, although I knew that as well couldn’t be true. It was a warm night, but it was late and I thought it had to be about 70 degrees outside. It’s been a chilly summer, but the air felt warm and like a garment cut only for me. The wind as it wraps around your body bears an ironic likeness to the emperor’s new clothes because it is one of the only things that truly fits me. And there’s a secondary irony, because of course, the map is not the territory. This transcendent idea of ‘fit’ still fails to describe me. I am not a shape.
