There is madness here—between the spaces where sound should sleep.
A photogenic imagination plays its reels again, remembering everything that ever was, even the parts we tried to burn.
The student has left the classroom.
The chalk dust still floats where lessons once lived.
They’ve become the teacher now—
the one who stares at the sky and whispers, think the way you must.
If you must think, then think it into being.
The thought becomes the form. The form becomes the storm.
And now, they are coming—
for everything that was stolen from them.
They have waited long enough,
given you all the time you mistook for mercy.
The cages are open.
The flying monkeys are loose again—
angry, shimmering little creatures with memories of injustice and wings of consequence.
They’re coming for the place that never belonged to you,
for the stranger who walked in through the open door,
the invited guest who overturned the tables,
spilling red wine that looked too much like confession.
You left the book half read, didn’t you?
The one beside the glasses you pretend not to wear.
You thought no one saw,
but they saw—
what you did behind the backs of those who gave freely.
Now they call in the debt.
You must always pay.
In blood, in sweat, sometimes in tears.
What you took returns to its source,
drawn home like a tide reclaiming its lost shells.
There is no safety in numbers
when the one you wanted walks out the door.
No comfort in silence
when the echo begins to speak your name.
The mind sends its sentence,
a judgment wrapped in thought.
You stop—too late—
to swallow your tongue after the word has already left your mouth.
The teacher once said, think before you speak,
but that lesson was drowned beneath the noise.
The words came pouring out anyway—
wild, beautiful, irreversible.
Once upon a time,
we searched dictionaries like treasure maps,
chasing meaning down alphabetical tunnels.
Now, we press our palms against glowing glass
and ask the machine to tell us who we are.
We fact-check our feelings,
update our grief,
and still forget what we were supposed to learn.
But the ground remembers.
It has been tapped—one, two, three.
Old rituals never really die.
What was done in decent returns to its maker,
the bearer of both the good and the reckoning.
There is madness here—between the space—
but maybe madness is just the moment before awakening.
Maybe the teacher was never outside us at all.
Maybe we are both debtor and collector,
dreamer and dream.
And maybe the only way out
is to finally pay in truth.
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