Imagination, in debut

My words have grown wings and left me,
When I used to be so full of their flutterings
In my mouth, choking to the palette cleave
In contorted musings

My soul is unsettled within me, disposed of its restfulness, insomniac insanity griping and grundling. I make up words to describe the distress, but words are not enough, words and their punctuations and sentences and units and organization, subjects and objects, tenses and grammar, syntax and oontext. Words in all their orderliness, oh! They do not appease me.

Yet they are all I have.

-

I am thinking about imagination, how it is a particular talent of humans, one exclusive to the temperament and nature of our species. We are limited by vision, circumstance and constrained to the fixities of time, yet we have longings and capacities larger than ourselves. We yearn for the beyond, desiring to break through all these swaddling cloths of limitations, to break free and be larger, to stretch and see to the very end, to the back of our heads, although our eyes are indicted to be restricted to a scope of a certain width, beyond which vision blurs and is no more. We have something known as peripheral vision, but it is not enough. Our insides hunger for something more than this, more than insignificant borderline peripheries, because we understand that ‘The End’ is a concept created by the subjects of limitations for their own comfort. The end is the boundary line which demarcates your limits, where your eyes cannot see beyond, where light is not cast onward, where the world flattens out into a single line called the horizon. For God, there is no such thing. For what can end that has no beginning, but just is?

This, then, is the conundrum. With our bodies we stay rooted in our smallness, yet with thought and imagination we project ourselves beyond ourselves- forward to endless eternity and upward to vast galaxies, beneath to deepest lava and mantle core of earth, inward to invisible atom and quark. But there is no end to this extension of our knowledge and our search, once satiated, is at once abetted, and our struggle between contentment and ambition contorts in shrinks and swells.