Little Crooked House

Questioning motives, questioning selves, questioning the hows and the whys and the roots of it all, winding down, dizzy, dizzy, down an endless warren of hollowed out rooms of darkness, and rooms of light, and rooms that are not rooms, and trying to be true, and trying to be wise, and trying to cease stumbling and walk the way one walks, slowly, carefully, shoulders back, back straight, the way one walks, the way one walks with a book perfectly balanced on one's head, carpet un-crooked. Be clear headed, be clear eyed, be clear, be straight, be swift. But why, what if, if only.

And all this questioning and all this thinking and all this logic and all this attempt to be wise and smart and experienced and fair, when really, the only thing that matters - and it may be a lie or it may be the truth or it may be bits of both - can't even be turned into a metaphor, it is so far beyond the language you speak, the language you know, but it's there, it's there, it's there.