On Poetry

Memory can't be trusted, and as it ages it only becomes more unreliable.  In recalling my childhood, I am quite certain friends were overrated, in my mind.  Though it's likely my memory wanted to cover up that they simply weren't there.  Either way, I had quite some time on my hands to think, as a child.  I pondered extensively on the workings of the world- not exactly normal child behavior, but I prided in not being a normal child.

I thought about people and the foolishness of the human mind.  We find acomplishment in studying ourselves and our world; why?  We invent puzzles- the Rubik's Cube, Sudoku, riddles- and then we pride ourselves in solving them.  We create things like numbers, then spend our lives studying them.  But we never truly understand.  Yet we strive for understanding, because in understanding there is control.  We want control; we want the ability to manipulate things.  We've learned to manipulate everything, from the Rubik's Cube to pens.  Cards, numbers, emotions, basketballs, swords, guns.  All of which we created for the purpose of manipulation.  And somewhere along the line we learned to manipulate what's been in front of us for thousands of years.  It holds responsibility, happiness, pain; but mostly, power: it is our language.

And thus poetry was born.