Traumata

 Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: 

something in me not me: things past. 

Is it my mother or my father? Is it one, none, you, me, it? I become it. And the depth of it surfaces and resurfaces. Time-space and all cursive realities are stuck, summing up, fulfilling abnormal geometry. I did nothing. It just happened. Or else my deeds were not-me, not-actions, but passions by extreme powers. Deeds merge with events, powers from outside disjointing, dismembering, disarticulating the body of capable beginnings. Me is thus magnitude of sufferings, no longer home of origin. Estrangement and alteration happen, abound, rule, without a proper line interweaving a sense of beginning and a sense of ending and a sense of flowing in between. Estrangement and alteration because there is no shared sense of navigation whose tempests would be nothing but life-expanding, life-nourishing, peripateia to be named and storied, and eventually celebrated with all brothers, demonstrated to all, reenacted with dance.