Words Left Along

I can’t quite put my finger on it, yet I feel its presence. 

I’m not sure if it’s a pressure, or something that manifests such, but as I said, it’s all around me; ever present.

Silencing my mind, it feels like a question, one that I can’t see the words too, only the question mark at the end of a missing sentence. 

What is it? the question I should be asking? 

I feel as if conclusions have been reached to their own and wits end.

Yet, that’s what that feeling is, a lack of resolution, a failure to feel content with things they are or appear to be. 

That’s it, it’s what things “ought” to be. 

How things should be. 

Why can I never rid myself of this ghost? 

What sense of satisfaction must I achieve to be exercised? 

Why is it that I can’t be content with how things are; always feeling that things must be different, neither good or bad, just different. 

I’m not even sure what direction different lies. 

Each way brings its own strain and resistance, preventing natural rest. 

Like a macraméd pot, it’s held in suspense when its pull is to fall and rest on the earth. 

But, a pot is a pot, it feels more akin to being a fly tangled in a web. 

I want to be free from the bindings that leave me hanging in suspense from actual rest. 

So that’s the question I do not know. 

This question is the one that will set me. 

Yet until then, all I have is a question mark and the outline of where it goes.