Posted by: Devin | October 18, 2014

Sweatshirt of the Universe

–for the pocket of my Emilie Autumn sweatshirt–

A pocket is but a hole made in fabric. 
Or OF fabric. 
Perhaps both. 
Is it therefore really a thing at all? 

Is it just a void in my sweatshirt that was never there to begin with? 

If I can lose my pocket, 
surely I can also lose myself. 
For am I not also both made of starstuff, 
but also of the emptiness between atoms? 

Am I just a pocket, a hole, a tear in the fabric 
of the sweatshirt of the Universe? 
Or, by being that pocket, 
am I somehow more than the sum of my voids?


Story behind the poem…

EXAMPLE OF HOW STUPID ANXIETY CAN BE, followed by an existential revelation about what pockets are:

I was in the car, parked, ready to get out. I went to put my phone in my sweatshirt pocket, but I couldn’t find the pocket.

IMMEDIATELY, my heart started hammering, the pre-panic attack wave of sweats and nausea hit me, I felt PANIC. BECAUSE I COULDN’T FIND MY SWEATSHIRT POCKET. KNOWING this didn’t make any sense and was no grounds for panic whatsoever.

Telling myself, “why do you have actual panic level anxiety because YOU CAN’T FIND YOUR POCKET?”

You sit there, knowing that there is no reason to feel panic like this, but your heart hammers, you feel suffocated, and nothing makes sense.

All I can figure is maybe, deep down in my subconscious, a part of me thought, “did this sweatshirt ever HAVE a pocket? Did it disappear? A pocket is a hole in fabric, so is a pocket really a thing at all? Am I a pocket? Am I just a hole in the sweatshirt of the Universe?”

I have no way of knowing.


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