Solitary World

T H I S is not a thought,

not a memory,

not a picture,

not a feeling.

 

These are words,

Made of shapes.

 

Curved lines that twist

On a page,

On a canvas

On a screen,

Through the air.

 

Curving lines

Angular lines

That represent a sound,

That when strung together represent a word

That when strung together represent….

Something…

 

Real.

 

Something tangible.

Something eternally fleeting,

A flashing moment of experience

Forever crystallized.

 

These lines won’t show you my midnight sky

With it’s cloud shrouded moon

And scattered crystal stars.

You won’t know my rising dawn,

Hiding the world in overwhelming light.

Can you smell my apple blossoms in the Spring

or feel my sharp autumn breeze tossing leaves,

Or hear the crickets and frogs from my front porch?

 

You can’t.

 

I wish you could.

 

I want to share.

I want to connect.

I ache to show someone,

You,

My world.

I want to touch

Perfectly.

 

I can’t.

 

This is the world through a glass, darkly.

 

 

Someday the glass will be removed and I’ll know and be known.

 

That will be a good day.

 

Until then, I have these words.

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