The Unknown

Write about the unknown? That’s a very difficult thing to ask for. There are too many unknowns for me to count that even if I did count all of them which one would I choose? Which one could I choose? Could it be known how the world around me functions? With its realms and endless tunnels and turns created to distract and dismay its travelers. Is it as beautiful as some say it is? Could it be known the feeling of emotions? Could I ever learn how to love the way your heart loves or mourn the way it mourns? And if I could, Would I choose to? The unknown is too big, too scary, too much of what the essence of the unknown is. I’m scared but I’m intrigued. I’m delighted to learn new things, but I know it might change and facts will become fiction and concrete will become abstract. It’s too difficult to ask for! If I asked a babe what the unknown is, they wouldn’t be able to speak more words than a person on last breath. A person who spent their entire lives for the answer the unknown, only for it to be unknown. Words as beautiful and hideous as they are can only be the answer for one and even then, I can’t give you an answer to a question I can’t comprehend. Here is my answer, a lonely thing of words after a silent but wordy soliloquy. The unknown is not the ground in the forest, the unknown is not the mist above mountains, the unknown is not the silence before the crash, the unknown is not what you think it is. the unknown is everything and nothing at all.