Prélude in E minor, Op. 28, No. 4

A thought about thoughts

I think therefore I am…

Implicating validation to I am real, a boundary built upon the decrescendo of ions cascading the echos of their gradient, allowing me this sense of I, a bottomless question.

Self awareness derived from an objective detachment to physical space, reality measured faithful ignorance, differentiating the understanding that this is this and that is that.

Existence dependent on me.

In this somewhere, this truth of mine, this sleight of hand conjuring contemplations corroborating the confines of “I”, its volume transversing the experience of ID and Ego?

Where is it?

This space in which thoughts exist.

Lacking tangibility.

Ineffable.

Eluding intuition.

Leaving this sense of being right on the tip of my tongue as I think about where these musings of mine take place.

Where could they be?

Where is this medium in which my thoughts gain substance?

Author's Note

Critique it all! I’ve been messing with pacing, attempting to give the reader a sense of anxiety, but am hoping to find a balance. Other than that please be brutally honest. 😊