Elegy To All The Things I Couldn't Elegise

I've seen and heard

people write elegies

to their undead sofas

and whimsical washing machines

and defrosting frozen chicken in drunken stupor

and lizards and cockroaches like flies on the wall.

So I decided, why not.

But then I have attachment issues

and reptilian skin

and rot iron bones

are too cold for my appetite

to commit.

And as I am about to lose

my last few focussed brain cells

before they scatter like particles —

as if it wasn't neural networks

but quantum physics —

all thanks to my short-circuited wirings,

or as science nerds call it: neurodivergence,

or as the neurotypicals,

popularly known as normal people, call it:

weird, intense,

weirdly intense, intensely weird —

because words, like people,

have wirings too.

But coming back to the point,

I thought of things broken and damaged to talk about

and yet all I could remember

was my broken sanity.

Because apparently

sanity is science

and only art can be objective.

And clearly mine is broken —

because how else do you define

a cognitive reluctance to norms and definitions,

an incorrigible habit

of philosophising the fuck out of everything?

Because grey only matters

when it comes to matter —

but otherwise,

it better be black and white.

Because how do you make peace

with admitting you get thoughts —

flashes of them, often and on —

thoughts that question

every last skin tissue

of everything you've been brought up to believe as facts?

Because if you were to admit

order is us gaslighting ourselves

into self-assigned boundaries,

how would you still call yourselves liberal?

Because if you were to admit

chaos is the only objective truth —

because if you were to accept

you believe in definitions

so you have answers

to questions you don't know —

Because if you were to surrender

to the idea of being

as a random outcome

of cumulative coexistences,

how would you ever convince anyone

you were sane?

I, on the other hand —

who can't make sense of borders and descriptions,

who can't tell sanity from pretence —

I will wake up another day

to things I wish I could write elegies to,

if only obedience was acceptable

to my audacious nerves.