Thoroughly lost to logic

I have subsumed my true identity into an artfully constructed ball of elastic, elaborate confusion. A ball of insistently burbling communication, following hot on the heels of non-brief briefings. A ball of inconsistent and even ragged semantics that makes no sense in any language, be it artistic or technical.

I am playing part(l)y politics, even though I want to spoil my ballot paper and abstain until death. I am ploughing my furrow amidst furrowed brows, thumb and forefinger rubbed bloodshot eyes and tense pauses. Hanging. Heavy in the air. Heavy is this air. I do not wear a collar any longer.

I am a mere citizen under watchful glass eyes, permitted to inhabit straight-lined acres of wired-up, tuned-in, zoned-out, impersonal space from almost dawn to almost dusk. Drone. I can hear a drone. From up above. Yet there is nothing above me. I must figure that out. Another time. Which is of the essence.

I have become one. One of them. At one with them. For the greater. Good? For the greater. Cause? I can’t finish your sentence for you, not whilst the comma sticks in my craw and the full stop is grasped in my claw.

I have lost my thinking rock. Somewhere. My thinking rock. Rugged. Of biting corner. Of smooth sides under repeated touching. I have mislaid it. It could be buried in earth for all I know. It could be set adrift on a watery south-west passage for all I care. It could just be down there, out of reach. Hidden from view. Under concrete. Under carpet. Under foot and under heart.

I have lost my thinking rock. I am scared for its safety. I worry for its wellbeing. Though it thinks like it breathes like it exists, my thinking rock can’t possibly think for itself. It doesn’t respond well to reason. Its name, number and meaning in life are an illogical mystery that it has no desire to ever discover. All it needs is. Is.