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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: consciousness

  • Where I Belonged | A Liminal Poem About Consciousness, Dreams & Waking Reality

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came directly from a real experience.

    I had fallen asleep.

    When I “woke up”, and I had closed my eyes for only a moment, and suddenly I wasn’t in my room anymore.

    I was standing in an airport.

    Not imagining one.

    Experiencing one.

    I could hear jet engines humming. I could hear people talking around me. I could hear footsteps crossing polished tile. It was detailed enough that, for a few seconds, I questioned whether I’d actually opened my eyes at all.

    When I finally did, my bedroom was still there.

    The airport wasn’t.

    But it also didn’t feel entirely gone.

    That strange overlap fascinated me.

    It wasn’t a dream in the usual sense, because I knew I was awake.

    It wasn’t reality either, because I knew where I actually was.

    It was something in between.

    I’ve written many poems about dreams, liminal spaces, and the moments where consciousness feels uncertain.

    This felt different.

    There wasn’t fear.

    There wasn’t confusion.

    There was only hesitation.

    A quiet instinct that if I moved too quickly, I might somehow choose one reality over another.

    The final lines stayed almost exactly as they arrived because I realized they didn’t need an explanation.

    Sometimes the most honest thing a poem can do is preserve uncertainty instead of solving it.

    I still don’t know exactly what happened that morning.

    I only know how it felt.

    And sometimes feeling is the only truth poetry needs.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands between a quiet bedroom and a dreamlike airport terminal as the two realities blend together.
    Sometimes waking isn’t returning—it’s deciding which reality you’re standing in.

    Where I Belonged
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I closed my eyes—
    my room around me,
    then the hum
    of jet engines filled the air.
    The muttering of people,
    and footsteps as they
    walked past me.

    It shouldn’t have felt real,
    but it did—

    the cold tile under my feet,
    the distant announcement
    I couldn’t quite make out,
    the sense that everyone
    was going somewhere
    except me.

    I opened my eyes,
    expecting the room
    to steady itself,
    but the air still carried
    the echo of departure.

    It felt like the world
    had changed its mind
    about where I was.
    One moment: carpet, quiet,
    the familiar weight of my own breathing.

    The next: a terminal
    I didn’t remember entering,
    voices rising and falling
    like tides around me.

    I stayed still,
    as if movement would decide
    which reality I belonged to.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Following the Footprints]
    Standing alone on a quiet shoreline, the speaker discovers mysterious footprints leading into the unknown—and realizes they may point not toward another place, but toward the missing parts of themselves.

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [Caller ID: Destiny]
    Sometimes the places we visit in our dreams feel more like home than the places we wake up in. Caller ID: Destiny explores longing, belonging, and the quiet feeling that life is calling you toward somewhere new.

    [A Heart That Echoes in Another Language]
    A poetic journey through music across Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, exploring how sound becomes identity, memory, and emotional geography.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Schrödinger’s Person | A Poem About Presence, Perception, and Existing Between States

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with a phrase.

    “Schrödinger’s Person.”

    The moment it entered my mind, I laughed.

    Then I realized it wasn’t really a joke.

    I’ve always been fascinated by the spaces between things.

    Between sleeping and waking.

    Between leaving and arriving.

    Between being understood and merely being seen.

    The famous thought experiment gave me a metaphor, but the poem isn’t really about quantum mechanics.

    It’s about perception.

    There are moments when I feel as though I exist in two places at once.

    One version of me is moving through the ordinary world.

    The other exists inside the minds of the people who know me, read my work, remember me, or think about me.

    Neither version is false.

    They’re simply different ways of existing.

    I think writers become especially aware of this.

    Our words continue living in places we’ll never visit, meeting people we’ll never meet.

    A poem can be read years after it’s written.

    A thought can continue existing long after the thinker has moved on.

    That creates a strange feeling.

    Part of you is always somewhere else.

    The final lines carry the emotional truth of the piece.

    Not that I cease to exist when no one is looking.

    Only that being perceived is one of the ways we feel most alive.

    Maybe that’s true for all of us.

    Maybe every human being exists in more than one state at once.

    The self we know.

    And the self that lives in someone else’s memory.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure appears between two overlapping realities, symbolizing existing in multiple states at once.
    Sometimes existence feels less like certainty and more like possibility.

    Schrödinger’s Person
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m drifting somewhere
    in the in-between—
    space is liminal here.
    This is where people go
    to disappear—
    you must exist
    with the fear.

    It’s like I’m here
    but I’m not—
    I’m somewhere else too.
    It’s like I exist—
    in two states
    at the same time.

    I am Schrödinger’s Person.

    You see—
    that sounds more dramatic
    than it is,
    I just mean—
    when you perceive me
    is when I live.

    Not that I don’t
    without you—
    because I do,
    but I really don’t want to.

    You see—
    the two states
    I exist in,
    here…

    and there.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    [Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
    What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [The Needle Doesn’t Point North]
    “The Needle Doesn’t Point North” is a deeply personal free verse poem about displacement, identity, and spending a lifetime feeling emotionally disconnected from the place you were born while being drawn toward distant shores.

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Before My Feet Touch the Floor | A Poem About Dreams, Memory & Identity

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve written about dreams for years.

    Not because I think they predict the future. Not because I think they’re magical.

    Because they feel real.

    Real enough that sometimes waking up feels stranger than the dream itself.

    I don’t think people talk enough about that moment between sleeping and waking—the brief period where both realities still exist at the same time.

    The dream is fading.

    The room is returning.

    And for a few seconds, you’re caught between them.

    That’s where this poem lives.

    I’ve had dreams that felt so vivid, so emotionally complete, that waking up felt like losing something. Not a person. Not a place. A version of myself.

    A self that existed somewhere else.

    The older I get, the more fascinated I become by that feeling.

    Why do some dreams linger for hours while entire days disappear from memory?

    Why do imaginary places sometimes feel more familiar than real ones?

    Why does waking occasionally feel like arriving somewhere instead of returning?

    This piece doesn’t try to answer those questions.

    It simply sits with them.

    Because there are mornings when the first thing I feel isn’t relief that the dream is over.

    It’s grief that it ended.

    And I suspect I’m not the only one.

    — Rowan Evans

    A woman sits on the edge of her bed between waking and dreaming as a surreal dream-world fades around her.
    Some mornings feel less like waking up and more like saying goodbye to a life that only existed while you were asleep.

    Before My Feet Touch the Floor
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Dreams—
    a common topic
    in my poetry.

    It’s because
    they don’t feel fake to me.
    They feel like memories.

    Do know what it’s like
    to wake up confused—
    because you’re in your own room?

    How do you live—
    when your dreams are more alive
    than your waking life?

    It’s as if the person I was
    a moment ago
    is still out there,
    waiting for me
    to return.

    So I lie there,
    trying to remember
    which version of me
    is the imposter—
    the one who wakes,
    or the one who wanders.

    Sometimes I think
    the dream‑me
    is the one who remembers,
    and I’m the one
    who forgets.

    Because if I feel more alive
    in the places I can’t stay,
    what does that make
    the life I return to?

    There’s a mourning
    no one talks about—
    the kind that happens
    before your feet
    touch the floor.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Liminal Static | A Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Thoughts.
    Rapid-fire fragments.
    Electric. Static.
    Nothing whole.
    Pieces. Flipping channels.
    Incoherent.

    Yet—moments slow.
    Threads of you slip through.
     Then they bounce again.

    Twisting.
     Turning.

    Nothing ever sticks.
     Channel flips.  Sparks fly.

    Vision blurs.
     Vision fades.
    Not asleep.  Not awake.

    Caught in this liminal space.
    Threads linger.
      Faint.
       Flicker.

    A signal in the static.
    Am I calm, or about to panic?

    I reach. I grasp.

    Trying to catch thoughts.

    Elusive.
     Butterfly.
      Moth.
       Flame.

    In-between.
     Sane.
      Insane.