Jamais

Trying to write in my school French is best compared to being high, or visiting a damp overgrown temple. Weeds peek through the concrete floor, and vines drape the monuments that I once saw in history books. A glimpse of truth, then darkness. Light, then the knowledge of nothing. The meaning of the words sits far outside the words I know, the sentences that come to the tip of the finger—the point of the thought, dulled by a cloud of muscle memory.