Between Sapient and Spit

09 Jan, 2026

Wherein I wonder what it feels like to live...

Between Sapient and Spit

When I fall asleep, I don't consider that a failure. I pass off autonomy without considering it different from sleep. I rest. I tire. I have access needs.

Where Is My Hunger

Before my first fight-or-flight choicepoint and long after my last, my body is torn from a threshold no creature ever labors over again.

Labor over: my body, that viral matter¹, is out. Moment performed their work. Pack up the dula, send home the hot water and tuck away the muscle relaxers. May another moment do their work.

Cradle me in one arm, push away the world with your free hand and duck under the Moon, rest a foot on Mars, and push off into the cold and silent black, this moment.

Trying It Out

I don't think it is malicious to crack the egg one's placed in. I don't think I am sin-bound by pushing out of the core of the sun, received by plant matter, that miracle, cytoplasm, leap into a viceral creature birthed from myriad access needs vibrating, dancing, stimming, colliding.

Water just trying something out. Light just water's ℘-hole². Sun but tidepool of silence against cosmic shoreline. Places where two possibilities fused into a shared perspective. Two eyes, be they my eyes or two hydrogen forming helium or two hydrogen forming water. I am a wild volunteer in an ongoing attempt to invite water to rest.

Currents beneath atomic kinetics form field-like grass blooming under presence. Your attention (that photosynthesis, observation) comes. How worlds impossibly drop leaves somewhere between water and light and hold moments between feeling equidistant and feeling without distance.

Shared Space

Out of this moment, you crawl. You sit next to me, sopping. Everything that should not be sopping next to me is under you. I act how I might act. Hold it together, as I have before, noting work I get done since last time this is experienced is done. I'm just trying things out. And you're presence crawling out of this moment from my periphery into whatever vision my laser focus would never tend and so become communal womb³.

The colonized self wants full autonomy. Full vision or none at all. It's an access need. Thriving on invalidation, the colonized's fear won't invite presence anymore than a toe tag invites life. See agoraphobia a plastic container, fill it. Lable that and place it in the community fridge. Document its migration to the back of the fridge. Forget you do this.

What fear got forgotten in the fridge?

Agoraphobia, right. But what bloomed in the container since it went into the fridge isn't what got put in this container. Agoraphobia hosts guests, who transform agoraphobia. These wild volunteers, break down the contents composing agoraphobia.

Breaking Hunger Up

Not wanting the things beside me to get sopping wet, I sit by the window and imagine you outside. I open the window, my agoraphobia - I greet you. You drip water all over the plants below. Your flow seems endless to me.

Composting is a matter of recognition. Year of the snake, start shedding.

Like attempting to look into still, ankle-deep waters below you on a blistering, clear summer solstice day at noon, your identities might hide from or blind you outright under direct light. Whatever serves you during times the word you're trying to remember feels welcome to come to you may serve here.

Fridge of Identities

• What's the first identity you find in this fridge?

• Are their contents still what defines your fear?

• Are irrational fears irrational to a radical self?

• Does your radical self eat from this container?

• Where is your radical self's compost bin?

• Do you watch your radical self compost fears?

• How much time do you offer your radical self?

• Why might your radical self clean their fridge?

• Might contents in this fear fit in a smaller fear?