Friday, March 16, 2012

Dilettante Savant



There was a man who wanted to be creative.

More importantly, to be thought of as creative.

I think, he verbalized to a stark and empty windowless room, that I should want to come up with something new under the sun.

The only accoutrements in the spartan space he occupied were the desk as which he was seated, the chair on which he was seated, and an empty wastebasket, constructed on wire, which sat empty on the floor next to his feet.  The walls, ceiling, and floor were white, as was the tall stack of papers that stood imposingly on his desk.  In imperceptible crack in the ceiling let in the faintest hint of sunlight, the whiteness of the room served to amplify this meager offering from the outside world into enough brightness to fully illuminate everything.

Every thought that sprung seemingly from nowhere into his mind he would eventually track down, like a hunter in the snowy woods, to the den of its origin.  The helpless pups he slayed without mercy, then left on the trail of another scent.  This pattern continued endlessly, with the predictability of the four seasons.

And he died, his headstone a stack of blank white sheets.  Above his desk, a mote hung in a sliver of sun-ray, it's motion imperceptible yet surely it did move, if only one was patient enough to observe.

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