How many times can a piece of paper be folded?
Seven, I read somewhere.
A soul, a person, I think, can be folded smaller.
I do it –folding myself into myself,
layer over layer, close, tight, till I’m in danger of bursting.
I want to be shut in, or rather, I want the world to stay out.
It is an irritant, like a grain of sand is to those clams that make pearls.
And I am not talented.
I am tired of embellishing my discomfort
with the world and its flashing, dazzling presence.
Even if it gives me some satisfaction, ultimately, even that is stolen from me.
So I strip myself of opinions, shut the door on my subjectivity
and cage my fluttering thought-butterflies.
Speaking lets the noise in; and all I need is the silence.