Synaptic Happiness
Before language fastens its coat
deep reward country stirs under the skull
a vesicle loosens its bright cargo
dopamine slips into the synaptic cleft
across that microscopic black river
receptors flare like struck minerals
one neuron changes shape from touch alone
branching fibres pass the voltage onward
nucleus accumbens tastes value in the dark
prefrontal rooms begin arranging doors
memory leans closer with warm hands
attention sharpens its little silver beak
serotonin lays quiet roads beneath the noise
endorphins soften bruised electrical hinges
oxytocin breathes through the human chambers
coffee enters as bitter weather in the blood
coconut water carries its mineral moon
chocolate leaves a medicinal shadow
mushroom earth murmurs through the cup
chemical couriers hurry through wet corridors
tiny locks alter their secret opinions
folded tissue prickles with lantern fruit
thought lifts suddenly from its chair
want becomes motion before naming itself
pleasure arrives crooked, brilliant, cellular
every crossing risks a small becoming
inside bone, darkness grows apertures
under the ribs, morning catches fire
happiness travels as a spark with teeth
leaving the whole brain winged and unlawful
This poem seems to take consciousness through a laboratory and transform it back into magic. It doesn't just explain neurology, it gives it a pulse. My favorite part is this: It describes the body not as a machine, but as a forest. Dopamine ceases to be a substance, it transforms into a spark finding its way in the darkness. Synapses are not just spaces between two cells, they feel like gateways of destiny trying to form. Especially, the line "want becomes motion before naming itself" is very powerful. Because often, before a person even thinks about what they want, their body has already changed direction. The poem captures this very well. And the final part: "Leaving the whole brain winged and unlawful" It's as if it's saying that even happiness has an uncivilized side. Pleasure is not regulated, it's wild, chemical, poetic, and a little dangerous. Throughout the text, scientific language and mystical language rub against each other, and light emerges from that friction. While reading, it's like walking inside your own brain. He feels it but the corridors aren't made of flesh they seem to be made of lightning and darkness
Winged, unlawful. Renewed!
Thank you. What a beautiful, beautiful piece.