Inanis
angō inside of me
interius entirely void..
solitudinem resting around
persōnae intus meum est
liberum of everything
crawling into animus
recession, repurposing
inanis.
Cover art: Saint Jerome, Jusepe de Ribera, 1648.
Inanis
Inanis
Inanis
angō inside of me
interius entirely void..
solitudinem resting around
persōnae intus meum est
liberum of everything
crawling into animus
recession, repurposing
inanis.
Cover art: Saint Jerome, Jusepe de Ribera, 1648.
The poem feels like someone trying to name a hollow that lives deep inside, reaching for fragments of Latin the way a person reaches for anything solid when language begins to fail. What moves me most is how the emptiness isn’t loud it’s quiet, settled, almost tender in its heaviness. The mix of tongues mirrors a self that feels fractured, as if the inner world were slipping into different layers of silence. Words like inanis and angō don’t read as vocabulary but as pulses of feeling, small tremors inside the psyche. The poem traces a slow inward curl, the kind of retreat the spirit makes when everything outside becomes too sharp. There’s a sense of the self thinning out, becoming bare, stripped of noise and identity. And yet, in that bareness, something honest appears a recognition rather than a collapse. The final return to inanis feels like an exhale, a moment of accepting what is there without fear. It reads like someone touching their own void gently, trying to understand its shape.
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