(In)accumulation

(In)accumulation

Unquenchable thoughts
Multiply into a multitude
Of fruitful verbal trees, cliffs
From which I hang
Despite trying to ascend.
I cling in cogitation,
My octopusian arms about to be
Amputated from my body,
As I manufacture reasons
To keep dwelling despite
My lack of clarity and answers.
Myopia.
My opi-um.
The accumulation of the near
Sight, blurring the horizon.
I wonder…
Will anyone think
Of me when I stop thinking…
If I think to be, as Descartes would
Have it,
Then this accumulation of thoughts
Is growth of being.
But if no one thinks of me,
What does it matter if I think of myself?
What does it matter what I think of myself?
What does it matter who I think of myself?
If no one thinks of me,
Then all my wealth of thoughts,
Are just an accumulation
Buried in the deep
Of
(in)visibility,
Of
(in)verifiability.
If no one thinks of me,
I am simply
A development,
(in)matrixed.