A low hum,
a quiet buzzing—
a collective consciousness
sharing borrowed space,
all together
whilst existing in our own worlds.

Once grounded—
tethered to schedules,
to what must be done—
now loosened from weight,
from urgency,
from the reflex to respond.
We rise above
the meaningless.

Some let their thoughts wander
like the gray matter we’re
floating through—
unfastened,
they drift within their own minds,
half-questions trailing off,
memories stirring up old weather,
a slow untangling
of what never follows us this high.

Others crowd the silence.
Screens glow,
noise fills the gaps,
minutes surrendered to nothing
so nothing has to be felt.

Below us,
lives collapse into pattern.
Homes shrink to scattered lights,
people are but small specks
pinned to a rigid grid—
certain of their importance,
and busy proving it,
offering little
beyond insistence.

And still this thing carries us—
granting distance,
granting pause,
granting a fragile hope
to those escaping—
or even beginning again.

We descend believing
we’ll touch down
anchored—
only to step back into motion,
threaded once more
into familiar designs,
tightening new knots
from the same old strands.

—The Nonconformist