I am in mourning. A few moments ago, without realizing it, I let an idea die. And it is that the ideas when they come to us are like unborn babies that need our attention and our care to survive. And just as a child can forget to breathe and become another victim of crib sickness, an idea that comes to us, if we neglect it, it can die without realizing it. It can be erased from our memory before any distraction. It can accidentally slip through the neurons that conceived it into the realm of oblivion, from which it may never return.
A moment ago I had an idea, and for a second I imagined its life. I saw it holding my hand growing into a poem or a story, but now it's gone. It let go of my hand and was lost in the multitude of absurd and useless thoughts that inhabit my subconscious. That same amniotic fluid that brought it into the world has accidentally killed it.
It left without even being baptized. Without giving me time to plan its future. One that flashed through my mind like a vision, only to disappear after a second, and now I can't remember. These lines, this outpouring of lament, is all that will remain of it, which is more than I can say of the many others that populate the horizon of my memory. Aborted lines due to tiredness, sleep or carelessness. Creations that failed to hold on to my consciousness enough to see the light of day, and were lost forever in the shadows of a maybe, of a could be, and now they live in never again.
A few moments ago I lost an idea. Suddenly I turned around and it was gone. I wanted to call it but didn't know its name. I wanted to look for it but didn't know what it looked like. I wanted to remember it but its existence was so brief that t left no memory, just a blurred image of something that I know existed and is now gone forever.
A few moments ago an idea died. I am in mourning. A piece of myself died ... one more.
©bonzopoe, 2021.
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