I Think I Wanted to Write This I think I wanted to write this. But the thought arrived already half-formed— like light from a star that died before I was born.
Somewhere, a boy chose the clarinet over the trumpet and called it a decision. But it was the weight of the case, the shine of the reed, the tone of his father’s voice when he said, “That’s a good sound.”
We are constellations mistaking ourselves for maps. We name the stars and think we invented the sky.
We want to believe in choice— because we want to believe in belief. Faith in freedom becomes the freedom.
But show me where intent begins— not action, but prelude to action, the whisper behind impulse, the first flicker of the invisible match.
Every neuron fires because of another, because of a childhood, because of a sugar crash, because the dog barked at 3:07 a.m.
We speak of choice as if we were not born mid-sentence, handed a script with half the words smudged.
I think I wanted to write this. But maybe it was the only thing I could have written.
Hypothesis of the Undone You want to linger, but not as mass. More as a pause in the formula— a bracket someone forgot to close. What if sleep is the original version of leaving? What if time is a side effect? You count nothing, but something counts you: a flicker, a vital, a maybe. In the mirror, no face. Just velocity slowing to shape. They call it medicine. You call it theory— an abstract on how light bends around refusal. You want to believe in matter because it resists. You want to believe in spirit because it doesn’t. And in the middle, a hum. Not healing, not dying. Just a hum that sounds like hope if you tilt your head the right way.
