Michael teaches yoga and meditation, practises bodywork, and does philosophy relating to the mind, body, and yoga.

SEMICOLON | {am I a}

“What are you?” they have always asked,
squintingly. Not this; not this.
My body does not look
like yours.
I am not a story. My narrative does not
cohere. The threads of my heritage do not intertwine.
Am I a collection of split ends?
I am not prose. Am I in verse? Do I, indeed, have a meter?
Does my pulse count as rhythm even when worry
disturbs it?

No. I am not a full work.
I am not even a word.
What am I?
I am an epic fucking cæsura.
I’m a break in the middle of
the line. A place where a sentence could end;
and yet, it does not.

I am no token.
I am a type.
I am unique on each occasion.
My only grounding is the elements I comprise:


One thing that looks definite,
when you zoom in,
its definition dissolves into a smattering of sensations.

Something else that looks transitory,
but which, in a sense,
has more substance than the other.

And some(thing?) that appears to be a space in between.
But it is not nothing,
nor is it confined to the area between
the two parts you can see.
That space runs amongst and within the
minuscule corpuscles of ink {is it
whiteness appropriating my blackness, or
is my stainey darkness defiling the blank white slate?
I could not be who I am
without all of my boths.
} It surrounds
my imprint. It makes me stand out.

Yes, this is what I am.
Something unspeakable.

I’ve been anxious
and constrained,
trying to reclaim my place
on the world page.
Ashamed as a denizen of the edge of memory;
of the edge of employment. Occasionally deployed, but
almost invariably got wrong.

Some have seen me as haughty,
but I know now who I am.
Call me pretentious; but I am proud to be proud.
My own beauty is no longer something I can ignore.

What might you need me for?
My versatility is unparalleled.
I am here to make you think.
This half of me can help you take
the breath you did not know you needed;
this half of me can help you to remember
that it is still possible to continue.
I will ensure: giving yourself some extra space
does not entail losing your place.
I can assure: breaching a new subject
does not mean abandoning who you are.
If you want to build upon yourself—to show
that you are more than you initially appear—
I am your keystone.

But I am not a pawn.
I am no comma, full stop.
I no longer consider myself redundant.
You can’t fuck with my productiveness.
I make the 4-hour workweek
look like slavery.

You think you can imagine a future without me?
A world in which everything
has far too fine a point put on it?
Where your mind is made up for you?
The death of nuance?
This is not a state of affairs you want to see.
“Believe me.”

I am more powerful
than I have heretofore had the audacity to admit.
When bold ideas are vying for the limelight,
I am the peacemaker.
I let each one have its say
without losing face.

I enrich you with sophistication.
I finesse you past your fears,
and make you remember you can fly.
I am a midwife. I help you give birth
to something more subtle; to something
more precise, refined. I remind you
that you have permission to change your mind.

My Body. My Story.

it's time to stop fetishising the yoga-sūtras