This is not my language.
I write words, and my heart aches for their blindness, their ineptitude.
Foolishly I have gone on a journey without lantern or map.
Selfishly I seek significance in the darkness, reaching out for tendrils, a line to grasp onto, a hook to draw me to the surface.
But I am them all; caster, lure, and fish.
The act is made known, and the thought slips back into the dark, the bait gone.
Frustrated, I have said nothing.
Hungry, I look out across the waters, knowing the bounty that lies beneath, awaiting capture and consumption.