October 9, 2009

Meditations on essay-writing

I sit here and type and listen and read, again yielding my soul, committing my self to the demands of thought. The fabric of the family tears away and wraps around myself. Everything of life is thrown into work. It's always hungry, this essay, and never is it fully satisfied. It stays small and thin and unhealthy, continually shedding skins to reveal the meager substance of itself. How can nothingness be refined? How can I express what falls apart in my hands? It's only dust, and has not lived a life of vigor before returning to dust again. I'm apt to believe Plato and declare that for human artists, there is no creation but reformation.