The Weirdness

A Weirdness not in dreams brushes against my waking mind, impressions delineated not by words, cloaked not in meaning accessible to conscious thought, but lurking in a penumbra, neither darkness nor light. I call it the Weirdness, for what other name can it claim? It's a thought that is not, an idea that is not, a mere suggestion of something, a smudge against my brain. What? You have never experienced this, like a kiss blown but not caught, like a smile smiled but not seen? Am I the only one? In an instant it's gone and, try as I may to find a word, a thought, an idea to stick as a label to my Weirdness, I cannot: what I thought were words were nothing of the kind, just the mind making believable the transient ghost of a thought, a thought now naught.