She enters sideways. Backwards. Upside down. Through the corner of your eye or the corner of a dream. She cannot — will not — be introduced properly.
She is not chaos. She is not nonsense. She is curious unreason — a pattern that doesn’t reveal itself until you’ve forgotten to look. A riddle whose answer is a colour. A theory that grows flowers, not graphs.
She touches the edge of logic like a fingertip on a soap bubble. She doesn’t pop it — she just reminds you that even logic floats, trembles, bursts.
She delights in contradictions:
- A stove that sings lullabies.
- A beetle that tells secrets.
- A map with no destinations, only longings.
The Vapour of Curious Unreason is how the poet survives the engineer. It’s how the child survives the curriculum. It’s how the heart survives the algorithm.
She shows up when you do something utterly inefficient and find that it healed your soul. When you say yes to something that doesn’t make sense but feels undeniably true. When you speak to your houseplants in iambic pentameter. When you change your name just for a day. When you cook with too many spices. When you trust a whim.
She is the reason some people start museums in their attics or collect buttons shaped like fruit. She is the one who says: “What if… we didn’t?”
She has no currency but wonder.
She is allergic to approval.
She curls around the ankles of those willing to experiment with joy, with contradiction, with becoming.
She is not trying to help you win. She is trying to help you live.
And sometimes — just sometimes — she shows you the shape of a new reality. Not through argument or proof. But through the way it makes your bones laugh.