Child
There is always something at the tip of my tongue.
Always something brushing against the edge of my fingers.
Always something waiting to be known or felt or expressed or all three.
What it is?
I don’t know.
I’ve never known.
It feels almost made up.
Almost imaginary.
Almost not there at all.
It haunts me right before I fall sleep.
Right before I go to write on a fresh page.
Right before I open my mouth after someone asks,
“What are you thinking?”
It feels like being a child, not knowing how to find the words to say what I want to say.
Only it isn’t like that when I think about it.
In fact, it feels like a ghost when I think about it.
I look for it in books.
In movies.
In other artists’ work.
In pictures or in words.
But nothing seems to feed this subconscious thing that is driving me mad with hunger.
Nothing seems to quench this thing that is driving me insane with thirst.
Nothing seems to give me the words to express the child in me who doesn’t know how to answer a simple question,
“What are you thinking?”
