How do you gather what won’t align—
these threads that will not call themselves thread,
but masquerade as shifting climes,
as weathered moods the mind has bred?
They laugh at hands trying to trace
their tangled, self-denying lace.
So, yes: normal texts needn't be twisted,
yet do not trust surface claims:
the trouble than brackets, codes, or names,
deeper than the ways we pretend meaning.
For writers twist their rhetoric tight,
to force an end, to feign a means,
yet lose the pulse and living thread,
in overworked, mechanical schemes.
However, contradictions aren’t defects,
not loose screws, not missed turns—
maybe they’re a kind of wholeness,
strange yet true, that will not flatten
into tidy lines and convenient lies.
Yes, we should permit random fluctuations
and let randomness take up its stage;
let flickers breathe and drift away,
unruled by any statistical cage.
Who cares about averages
when you’re building a world out of breath?