I am the why-child ft. condescending particles
I am the why-child.
Wondering why every condescending atom winks in my direction, begging me to ask it directions, and why it should ask such a thing.
I am the how-child.
Wondering how atoms are winking in the first place, and how they could direct one such as I—fantastically made of the same atomic stock.
I am the who-child.
Wondering who I am to see such fantysmal things, and who these conscious elements are that ask me to question them.
I am the what-child.
Wondering what these atomic suppositions could be, and what causes them to bleed from the ink well in my pen.
I am the when-child.
Wondering when these whimsical winking particles started speaking to me, and when they developed such terrifying rhetoric poise.
I am the where-child.
Wondering from where this ethereal wisdom flows, and where it got the guts to invade this mind with endless questions.
I am the if-child.
Wondering if any of this makes sense, and if: ‘if-times-if’ divided by ‘if’ equals ‘if’, then if it right, or if it wrong?
I am each. I am child.
I am made of questions for questions,
To question the questions,
In the Quest for the Question
That answers the questions;
Which is questionably complicated,
And without question, connected
To every condescending particle
My eyes pierce the horizon, wafty questions sift from my mind, like words minced of their meaning. I feel my mouth take the form of a question mark, as reality is rent before me. Through a thousand atomic cracks, I observe the homogeneous world hiding behind a savage complexity, and there I see you wink at me.
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