As a Cloud
If I identify with the idea of myself to the point of paralysis,
the world becomes a bottle of pills at my bedside,
one to be taken every four to six hours for the duration of my illness.
My breath is labored, my vision skewed.
Visitors leave tsk-tsking and shaking their heads.
If I see myself as a cloud,
and watch as I change shape and fade and grow
as I drift across the sky and merge with other clouds
and finally disappear, I am cured.
But who is to know?
And who utters these nebulous words?