Pink flowers, yellow ones too. Blue surrounding the edges with markers no eye can see to separate the space where the colors change.
Blown up to scale the knowing of which only God can, there in the other worlds, do those who dwell fit or flounder such as we?
Does this mean anything to anyone?
If it can’t be known is it real?
If it isn’t seen is it there?
She remembers reading a poem that her teacher told her was great but she couldn’t figure a word of it unless it be dissected by the class to see the meaning of. “Gnarly feet.”
She thought then that if something had to be explained it could be explained in countless ways. Context was the only true measure of meaning — so, to understand, one had to know all the elements that had had any influence there — the time, the place, the people, words in history — meaning something altogether different in the flux, as margins shift.
“Of all the billions of people, we ‘met’!” But it’s always the case when two connect, it’s always out of billions.
He picked a bug up to take outside, “One of those bugs that look like a giant mosquito” he said “because it will die of starvation if it stays in the house.” And while he shifted getting coffee, freeing the bug and staying near his phone laid on the counter, his white shirt got spotted coffee. He wasn’t worried because he had been trained how to get coffee out or any stain for that matter — he was pro at it and had the charge of doing all their laundry.
It was fun for a minute pretending, to be coupling thoughts and searching in the margins where it can be told — that is exactly where the colors change and things or people fit or flounder.