A letter to my teacher of biblical greek, on the futility of asking the mind of the chronically, severely sleep-deprived to understand the questions sitting before them.
You asked me to look at the page
To see the words of the dead, and
Know the meaning of what they said.
What is this word? Ending? Function? Grammar?
Sophia, let me answer.
It is a word. A word no longer spoken,
A word that still has meaning.
But that word in my head is blurred,
I no longer hear it or see it to know
Why that word was chosen, or
The purpose of the sentence flow.
Logos. I know it is important,
I know that I am expected to know,
But the words themselves are
Lost in the brain that refuses to go.
I want to remember, and can no longer see.
I wish to learn, and can no longer walk straight.
In order to finish I sacrificed, and
That hubris has now been repaid.
There are symbols inked on the page,
Which are fogged by my mind, that
Now only echos the stories of childhood,
The fears I wish I had forgotten,
The shame of no longer being able,
To do what I must do.
What is that word? That grammar?
I do not know.
But I can learn it after
My body is healed and
My mind is whole, when my will
Is equal to my ability to do.
What is this word?
I knew it once.
One day I shall know it again.
When once more I can find
The words that mean what I wish to say.