I can feel questions in the air without anyone spewing a word. They flatten the space in front of the eyes into a fuzzy edged rectangle with nothing inside. And that rectangle softly inhales. Pulling in. Filtering the next few seconds into something comprehensible to the last. Filling its emptiness with those comprehensive parts, chewing it, and turning that fuzzy edged rectangle into a solid point that radiates fullness. An answer. An answer is a sun. A question is a blackhole. Neither necessarily positive or negative. But both, a perfect balance. I’ve been stuck in fuzzy edged rectangle for a little too long. Questioning if there was ever even a question to begin with. How does a rectangle filter another rectangle? They don’t. They merge. The rectangle gets bigger. And the edges get harder to define. It’s very uncomfortable, experiencing so many questions at once. And having no answers to fill their space. I’m a mass of empty. I feel myself inhaling harder than before. Harder and harder. But, nothing is landing comprehensively. I’m starting to get scared I won’t be able to inhale any longer. And the next breath will just have to begin. Without ever having an answer to the last. The next breath will begin. Flattening into its position across my sight swiftly and perfectly. Because its question has already been formulated. Formulated by the coarse cold hands of fear. In the depths of the purposely unseen:

Is a breath with nothing learned a waste of a breath?

Is a dropped egg a waste of an egg?