We are all in a minority-of-one, of sorts,

Embedded in the randomness of thought,

The quirks we cultivate, or choose to ignore,

Is our first glance going to ceiling or floor?

 

Raising the intonation at the end of a statement

Problematizes even the most complacent thought;

Or, maybe, we look our interlocutor straight in the eye

Let him slowly work out the exact nature of our reply.

 

Saying what you think is the opposite of what you mean?

Accelerates irony's declension, a form of false redemption?

Removing the ego from the solitary pursuit of meaning?

Releases us into seeking the essence of meaning in feeling?

 

Words do not solve our long held sense of an abiding-silent anguish

But language reminds us not to languish in this profoundest anguish.