How do I know if I’m one of those people? The clouds are plush purple wholly water. The morning boils with questions like a child in a new land. It’s all new to them: questions, answers, it’s all the same to them. But you didn’t want answers, or at least not anymore. Why not? With a fracture, bone pierces brain. There’s a certain beauty in bruising as it rushes in — the flush of release, the flash of stars when the brain smashes into the back of the skull. Flesh is stones on a beach that low tide relinquishes. In time, a clock will strike. A toddler holding onto a walker wobbles with wonder in his eyes. Mist precipitates. There is always more to the story, more detail and background that I don’t need to fill you in on. Fluid overload is an abnormal excess. Every car door, frozen shut. What happened to questioning? Asking for a friend. It can feel like scrounging blindly in your pocket for a dime that you aren’t certain exists. It can be unsettling. A wedding band spinning on the sink’s rim, reflected from a spit-spotted mirror. Staring at the sun reflected in the pond, my eyes burn and water. We are purified by sublimation, from one form direct to another. It’s less a destruction, more a release of pressure. Driving through fog and using high beams is too enlightening, but there are ways to navigate. If you can’t find Polaris, follow the sound of questions until you reach the water.
David Bankson is a full-time autodidact and part-time computer geek with passions for poetry, philosophy, and science. His works have been featured online at Eat Sleep Write, Indiana Voice Journal, Artifact Nouveau Journal, Thank You For Swallowing, & Five 2 One Magazine.