Cant help but partake in a life absorbed in the study of patterns, of details, in: human reaction, story, feeling.
Brighter minds than mine have made greater strides in quantifying these patterns than I. Some in math, some in chemistry, others in search of some missing word, or line or stroke or chord.
But not a single one of us could quantify that. We can write chemical equations. And make logical conclusions. Come up with recipes, and cheeky proverbs.
Yet somehow, a fleeting thought, a glance, evokes the sublime.
I was never good at reading constellations. From the moment of my birth, I was cursed with nearsightedness. Even the ferns and leaves you fell in love with, were blurry from a distance. But, my god, Ive seen patterns, Ive seen Synchronicity. I traced the legends of mythic heroes in the jawlines of my neighbors. I saw caricatures, I heard dialogue connections creep unwanted into my peripheries. Noble Discipline is a stranger to me, couldn’t read the constellations, but I connected stars, pinpricks of light along a timeline.
And Third Thoughts
Run rampant through me.
And I would be hard-pressed to quiet them down.
Brighter minds than mine have made greater strides in quantifying these patterns than I, a fool, and a coward. Long equations and years of thought, introspection, entire encyclopedia sets whittled away, smaller and smaller, all to an answer of the lowest common denominator. As if an arbitrary grunt, a quiver of the vocal chord, could hope to contain the sum total of human experience (small though it may be).
The greatest trick an artist could ever pull is not the expression of an experience, but to Become Experience