the failure of words.

And in the clouded recesses of my mind, a thought comes, and goes before I can document it.  The impossibility of thought, the improbability, the beauty.  These words, as I type them, cannot show you my thoughts for all that they are.  My thoughts (and they are by no means impressive ones) contain a flavor, a scent, a sound, a sight, a feel.  They contain things that cannot be expressed, things that the word is powerless to express.  I've tried journaling, but it is too slow.  I don't want to write about how my day went, I want to write about how my day felt, how it sounded, how it smelled, how it tasted, and how it looked.  This day was leaves in the wind, it was false tears from onions, it was a masterpiece of emotion. It was like a berry that waited too long to be picked, or a flake of mold that would become penicillin.

This day was a poem about rays of sunshine, this day was an experiment, this day was a gift.  This day was.  And - surprisingly - I find that that is enough.