Holly Day |
|
Arrogance
it ought to have altered my existence. I observed him bent above his composition, hours
consumed informing minuscule granules
of tinted sand of his convoluted plans on the soil, sketching cobalt flowers,
scarlet flowers, a single colossal blossom obscuring the dried, packed earth.
It was so lovely,
I would have given everything to be able to roll it up in its entirety
and take it back home with me, but the storm stole it minutes after
it was finished, spreading fantastic ribbons of contrasting dye
against one another until there was nothing left but flawed, vaguely
grayer smudges striping the blond sameness of the barren sand. the tiny man
rose to his feet, beamed at me as though he had intended on the storm,
and walked slowly away. it should have changed my life. I should have
taken it away with me his lack of creative arrogance, his readiness to just
let his day evaporate in the quest for a small moment of exquisite beauty,
and just the beauty of that one small moment.
I was wholly determined to go home and expunge the whole
of what I had ever composed that day, that week, that whole
crazy year of my life, overflowing as I was
with the little man’s palpable happiness at the creation of something
so temporary. I figured that taking joy in just the act of writing
should be adequate for me, too. I sat in my tent for hours, gazing at page
after page of hurriedly-scribbled poems, annotations,
fictions, tomes almost started and some almost finished
and couldn’t do it. I failed. I wanted to. I would like to be released
of this baggage of miscellaneous papers,
to set fire to all my petty dreams, disperse the pieces of me that are frozen
in those notes
but I haven’t the power to set them all free.
it ought to have altered my existence. I observed him bent above his composition, hours
consumed informing minuscule granules
of tinted sand of his convoluted plans on the soil, sketching cobalt flowers,
scarlet flowers, a single colossal blossom obscuring the dried, packed earth.
It was so lovely,
I would have given everything to be able to roll it up in its entirety
and take it back home with me, but the storm stole it minutes after
it was finished, spreading fantastic ribbons of contrasting dye
against one another until there was nothing left but flawed, vaguely
grayer smudges striping the blond sameness of the barren sand. the tiny man
rose to his feet, beamed at me as though he had intended on the storm,
and walked slowly away. it should have changed my life. I should have
taken it away with me his lack of creative arrogance, his readiness to just
let his day evaporate in the quest for a small moment of exquisite beauty,
and just the beauty of that one small moment.
I was wholly determined to go home and expunge the whole
of what I had ever composed that day, that week, that whole
crazy year of my life, overflowing as I was
with the little man’s palpable happiness at the creation of something
so temporary. I figured that taking joy in just the act of writing
should be adequate for me, too. I sat in my tent for hours, gazing at page
after page of hurriedly-scribbled poems, annotations,
fictions, tomes almost started and some almost finished
and couldn’t do it. I failed. I wanted to. I would like to be released
of this baggage of miscellaneous papers,
to set fire to all my petty dreams, disperse the pieces of me that are frozen
in those notes
but I haven’t the power to set them all free.