What happens to the questions that never get asked?
Do they go somewhere and huddle together,
Waiting patiently for their turn to be called?
Or do they drift in the ether
Amidst our darting thoughts
Prowling for that mature mind
Ripe with all the possibilities
To give form to the formless
And words to their call.
What is it like to be a question?
To exists in the misty regions
Between ideas and thoughts
A connection waiting to be formed
To lie in wait of the one who can give it shape
And then begin to die
As the faint murmurs of the first few answers
Begin to appear through the haze.
With every birth starts the process of death,
Some questions die too soon–
Without maturing, without being fully explored,
Abandoned by their interlocutors
Perhaps in haste or for questions that seem better–
Who knows?
With every answer, the question becomes pregnant again
And spawns tiny question-lings–
Some of these send busy minds to work post-haste,
While some are still-born,
And others wait for their turn
To captivate and see the light of the day.
What happens to the questions that never get asked?
They walk in our midst,
Like ghosts.
