I close myself to know myself;
Not knowing is an itch, not living is a blur.
I hunt for words to find myself;
But if not living is a blur, is living a curse?
I try, I reignite my senses with a passion best known to unknown
thinkers of the world.
Up somewhere, an albatross takes a final flight while a wrinkled face
sniggers below.
Here, I wallow in my self-induced misery while an unmistakable pair of
knowing eyes revel in their pitiless power.
If power is such a proven tool, is its knowledge not a callous,
unfortunate offshoot?
I do have words inside me still;
Expression— I do not.
These words, on some level, have some meaning still;
Manifestation— they do not.
But if expression is an effort, aren't my resilient words worth the
effort still?
I hold on to memories and moments;
I rediscover myself with each metamorphosis I leave behind.
Realization often dawns after a million unanswered questions.
Sometimes, all it takes is an alternate life lived in a flash that
simply, suddenly whizzes past.
If the befuddled question seeks its direction in the answer, is the
answer itself not me, myself?
