vague

The taste of fear is aluminum. The taste of sadness is tart strawberry. The taste of joy is almond lavender. It is the taste of vagueness I do not know.

I sit on a hard wall of concrete, my butt aching, and think of how many times I have awakened from sleep in my life. Such a number exists, but I cannot not reliably state it. Nor could anyone else. It is as unknowable as the amount of times I have left in my life to wake from sleep. I shift my butt, trying to distribute the ache across a wider plain. It's a wide enough horizon, for sure. I smile at this joke I've made to myself, the silly image it brings to mind, and wonder how many smiles I have left. Everything has a number. Nothing is infinite.

I should sit somewhere more comfortable, but the air here, despite its humidity, tastes fresh. I look at my shape: flabby moving parts, living cells, a shape whose beauty is entirely in the eye of the beholder. Form without definition--is such a thing possible? The very idea of form suggests there must be definition, even if we can't see its borders, sense its shape. When I leave, there will be no memory of my shape on this concrete. I can't recreate the uniqueness of any moment of my existence.

Perhaps vagueness has no taste. Perhaps we simply can't recognize it.