Fleeting Thoughts
by Evelyn Willman
Sometimes, when it’s very late and I lie awake, I like to pretend I have discovered the secret to life. I imagine myself as a monk on a remote and distant mountain, sitting tranquil in sunlit silence, waiting patiently for divine truth as it snags the edge of thinking. A meditation on the meaning of everything will slip away in a whisp of smoke if thought about with too much. I like to think that, in this moment, I know what it all means, and I am at peace with it.
Of course, in the morning there’s still last night’s washing up piled by the sink, and I forget about my toast until it starts smoking. But even then, deep down the feeling still lingers, unspoken and unknown, and I cannot explain it. Then I have my tea and toast and come back to do the washing and forget all about it.
But maybe, I think, this is the secret. This really is what it all means. Maybe this is what poetry is – completely incomprehensible to anyone who isn’t me.
Evelyn is from Devon and currently studies in Leicester.