consciousness, or the reason i dropped philosophy 101

why am i not the

barber at the corner,

snipping locks &

doling sweeps to the

parquet tiles?

why am i not the

farmer who grew the sorghum

which made the fibres of

the broom? why are my

feet on the ottoman, while

his are ankle-deep in

muck & mire?

why am i not the cloud

that plopped the rain

that effeted the ground,

like a sponge that’s gorged on

suds? why am i not the

clerk from royal doulton,

who pitched the vibrant, efflorescent

motif—gunked with guacamole

in the kitchen sink? professing

it matched the trim of

my sombrero?

and why was i not the

octogenarian hippie,

who had sought the coiffeur in

the first place—jaded with

plucking flowers, fed up with

his thinning locks which had

meandered to his mouth, its stench of

mouldy noodles, twirling on his fork

when there was nothing better to eat,

bawling as if a

starveling in mogadishu, though he’s

never set a sandal in somalia,

an ingrate of a fellow, who’s

somehow ducked the odds,

like a lucky british tortie

or himalayan, pampered on the sofa

in his life after life after life after life

after life.

Andreas Gripp

August 7, 2026

photograph: Csaba Deli / shutterstock