silica

i think often of how i have never seen my own face, and can’t cleanly remember my own memories. i am told it is a coward’s perspective to believe nothing is real, but what would make more sense than this — body after body, turtle after turtle? the real mystery is why, but i can only speculate what, this material of infinitely full-stacked shells. i have an impression, deep green: silicon chips bearing microcosm cities, projecting glitter onto a plastic heavens. when i hear that tired line about the relation between humans and stardust, that’s what i see — learned hands collecting damp sheen of sand, sourced from the same unknown warehouse as hot suns and kernels; just dressed in a different name. glitter collecting glitter to engineer into glitter. some day as i do this, my glossy form like a shell too will be swept up: some of it sprinkled over castles, some receding into the vast and vanishing turquoise. glitter in the sea, in the sky — every bit leading to itself, a coward need not think so hard.