There is a secret in that word.
It is stuck between the root and an affix
that wants to run away, to escape from everywhere
(it is not easy being a bound morpheme).
It is stuck between several morphemes
and sometimes all together create beings like themselves
with tiny bulky pieces,
but the secret stays inside.
That word is not long enough,
(there aren't words long enough,
although you can try to stretch them)
just a few syllables one after another,
but there is an extended path by which it went through
before arriving to the place of the sentence that it occupies.
It is not easy, isn’t it?,
being born in a thought,
growing in a toddle’s mind thinking in silence,
living your childhood in some lips,
only shouting sometimes,
drinking your adolescence in the air
and reaching your adulthood from outside you,
totally open to nothing,
from the air to the moon,
with some soft hedgehogs grazing your skin,
not soaking in to yourself anymore.
Sometimes that word can appear alone,
remaining in the solitary path towards the stars,
trying to barely grasp them,
but it won't arrive to places that don’t exist
and the unspeakable secret will stay
again
inside.
The secret leaves its home,
just climbs to the phrase,
jumps over a preposition
and makes its entrance into the sentence level
and explodes, unformed, to the audience
losing its definition.
When the word becomes old,
there is nothing more to do
than following the path by which it travelled all your life:
from the sentence to the air
and
eventually
if lucky
to your thought.
In order to come back,
you will also need to jump, to ascend, to climb.
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