The Puzzled Mess

Some people have a certain grasp of language, they master it and transform it into art. I’m not one of these people. I hear ideas in my head that are both beautiful and art-like but that’s as far as it goes. They exist for a split second, just long enough for me to realize their greatness, before they vanish leaving me a puzzled mess.

«I had it, it was just here but no more.»

As a poetaster and a pretentious hack I often wonder if these people whom I admire for their craftsmanship and creativity have found some way of channelling their ideas onto paper, or if they too have fleeting ephemeral ideas a thousand times more grand than mine that leave them just as quickly as they came about, and that they’re just plain old better than I am.

«Maybe it never was, maybe it never will be, but it’s surely gone now.»

In the end it boils down to jealousy. I don’t need to analyze what I just wrote to realize my own inadequacy. To each his own; to you, I raise my glass.

Friday, 15. December, 2006 · , &