Medulla, Pons, and Cerebellum

Thin cracks form within my shell. Glimpses of meta-truths shine bright through the thin membrane. I am all need, all longing for a freedom I cannot explain, bundled and confined in this feverish state. This illusory ectoderm, this shell of the senses, both cradles me and imprisons me, but to shatter this sanctuary is to lose cohesion.

I am a product of my senses. My relative, component perspective emerges from this place of distinction. The world is painted in distinctions for the human mind: imagined differences. The result is fragments and solitude, a psychological separation from the world. In fear of the violence of nature, of the rawness of losing distinction, I cling to my shell. I am distinct and separate because the alternative is too scary.

This is illusion, a fragile bubble, a Robin's egg in the hands of a careless boy. The skin is thin and brittle and the light still gets in. There is a storm raging inside. It is the same storm that rages outside. Complex forces swirl and spin in a constant dynamic dance, a turbulence rooted in all things. The ballroom is this single cell, this fragile egg, this thing I call I.

In this serpent's eye there is the calm of substance.