May I stay here, in the comfort of the uncanny — where time evades the question: what do you want?
I don’t know the answer. It dances, tauntingly, with a degree of shrouded translucence, the way light seeps through glass in a blurry diffraction, veiling the interior…
The answer — that elusive entity housing degrees of certainty and ambiguity about life and dreams, is on the move. It lives in the movement. It leaves prints in the dampened sandy paths, which the world lacks the expertise to interpret. But we point and ponder, anyway.
Maybe the answer doesn’t want to be tracked. It migrates fluidly; it runs from confrontation, heart beating in anticipation of being caught for the game of it, the world reverberating in anticipation.
It wants to be free.
But it leaves prints nonetheless.
Who understands what they want, anyways?