flooded by undigested impressions
coming to the surface
from somewhere in the intestines
of the mind
where they have been stored
unknowingly
waiting for the proper moment
to be looked at
the nausea is as real
as any intangible nausea can be
and somehow
it makes no sense to dissect the content of the memories
they are all in pieces
fragments of experiences
that can no longer become whole
no longer tell
a proper story
maybe all there is to do
is to let it surface
in order to leave it behind
liberating space for a proper life
to be lived
from the guts