Sometimes I get mad that I can’t know everything. That I don’t and won’t.¬†
I wish I knew every constellation in the sky, the names
of every flower I walk past in the morning, how it sounds next to every
booming waterfall. But I don’t. What is that painter or that one? What significance
does this piece of architecture have on the modern world? What about the rest?
I won’t know why the women come and go speaking of¬†Michelangelo,
how the caged bird sings, for whom the bell tolls, won’t know
which tender buttons to unpress, or where my station in the metro
will be. Nor do I know if I’ll ever say, yes, I know love. What is that sick
feeling I’ve read about? I want to know the ache of knowing
that this is it.