Curiosity buzzes up, like a new floor to my consciousness
was added right up front forward, above my head. An impulse takes my attention up into a fist as I knock on
that upstairs door. This is happening so fast, I have to assemble a commitment
face as the door opens. I went with the expression of naiveté followed up
quickly by a full face of surprise. There, in front of me, is a holding pattern
that I then believe, has turned to face me but is not interested enough to
acknowledge my attentiveness in its self-absorbed passing. I am somewhat
rendered to an eavesdrop status and therefore striped from an imminence of
questions to ask or a retentive mind bolster of expectations waiting for
explanations forthcoming. I am on my own with that which continues to pretend to
be a fury of presence yet inanimate to my level of needs. What is this thing of
curiosity made of? Is it a gene pool aspect? For now, it is like an attention
rash that cannot be scratched! It is an allergy of wonderment, a reaction to,
maybe the pollen of the unknown! I don’t want to live in the world of suspects. I don’t want to be cast as snoop or pry. I want the land of
enrichment to surprise me, to French kiss my mind, to magnify and multiply what
I am coming to know of myself as home. My inquisitiveness was never meant to be
a posture of confirming inquisition! . . .
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