like most people i spend the bulk of my time alone. like now, writing this poem, I could very well dive into the internet to find definitions and ideas about how to proceed to alleviate the sense that to get from A to Zed there’s some path other than this brain-born impulse to put letters one after another until they make a word until they make a phrase until the phrase turns to the next line until the fear of not knowing what next cannot stop me. like most people i’ve wondered what’s out there what’s made the grass grow my nails grow, the impulse to go acrylic rather than paint what I have. is a hangnail skin or nail? I could exit the poem now to search but these cosmic questions to which there are answers but also no good reasons; this keeps me fixed here in my secondhand desk chair my fingers moving listening to the ceiling fan’s whirr? whoosh? -- what’s the name for the medium speed spin sound as it goes ’round fast enough that blades become a flower, and once every minute or so it rattles twice definitely off balance but not enough that it requires immediate attention.
This is Day 42 of my #100DayChallenge. Thank you to my soul-sister Suellyn for the word-prompt today “cosmic.”
I guess I could comment how this word happen to fall on Day 42 — a number that represents the ANSWER — to life, the universe, and everything. But I don’t want to imply that this poem or I have that kind of weight.
Simple coincidences do give our existence a happy little soundtrack however, don’t they?
I happened to have loved the year I was 42 — it was a fun, year for me. So I do love that number, on many levels.
What’s your favorite number? Why?
What a wonderful post! My favorite number is 22, and I believe it was a pretty good year for me. (Although I cannot believe it was 15 years ago...)