I sit up in bed and stare at the ceiling
as if it is going to sink down upon me
like a car compactor at any moment
and push me into two dimensions from three,
and at the side walls as if they would slide over
to meet each other and take me
from two dimensions into one,
and then toward the foot of the bed
to see if that wall will come up
and crush my newly linear self into a single point.
A vanishing point, maybe.
A pixel on a screen, perhaps.
I have faith that none of this
will hurt, no blood will flow from me,
my bones will simply telescope shut
and compress into memory.
A single point seems indestructible enough.
A single point can slide through any catastrophe.
Infinite lines can pass through a single point
and it will remain indelibly itself.
I can do that. I can be myself,
reduced to holding infinity stretching
in all directions.
It seems far better to do that,
to enable that which remains,
to be a mere point
allowing others to intersect
and extend themselves,
than to wring these temporary hands
over the loss of my identity
to the weight of looming darkness.