I wonder what means the most to me.

I wonder what creates the weight

That I reflect onto an object's 'meaning'.

I wonder about wonder itself:

How it's discovered,

How it's forgotten,

And how I always contain it,

Spilling out in art, in thought, in action.

 

My wonder is always - always - with me.

Always clawing at its bonds,

Always escaping in ecstatic creation.

 

I was once without wonder, and it seemed to me

That life was pointless.

Thought was thought.

Art was unknown.

Action was mechanical.

 

To wake up? Oh, that simply meant

To exist in meaninglessness.

One plus two equaled three.

Red simply described a rose.

Questions had pre-recorded answers.

 

Without wonder,

No random actions.

Without random actions,

No free will.

Without free will,

No urge to be, to live,

To coexist with answers.

 

Why were there always answers?

Why was there always a path

Or two, or three?

Why was there nothing new - 

Nothing pure, innocent, compelling

To be discovered?

I wondered how others lived with this weight.

I wondered...

How I wondered.

 

And like a spark destined for the dryest of landings,

My wonder returned - full, bright, wonderful.

My heart. my mind, my soul... each aflame with possibility.

Because finally, I realized:

One plus two didn't have to be three.

It could be four, by simple creativity, whether it was 'wrong' or 'right'.

Red was a feeling, a feeling actual people felt.

But it could be more than the love or anger it so often represented!

It could be joy, or fear, or anxiety.

And then my greatest realization:

Questions could be answered with anything.

Literally, anything.

 

I wondered how I could make the answer four,

How I could turn my depression red,

How I could answer with nonsense.

 

I was free.

I felt alive,

And I wondered.