Tired regressions into future states
yield the unknown to the forefront
of the mind's canvas.
We were only children when it began,
our fingers dipping into random buckets of life
to spread across the blank unknown.
What a mess we made of ourselves:
our minds cluttered with colors
and unfocused photographs
of things we were told to remember.
It doesn't matter what mistakes
were made in the painting;
it doesn't matter how late
we stayed awake thinking
that we could have done it better.
It's done and it's ours:
all of the splotches and lines,
the cracks in the paint
from our very first experiments in living.
And
we still don't know what it means.
Private.
