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.








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