Perfect Ambition

In a perfect world, my lowest ambition might lie among the tracks beneath the city, where we disembark for another day in the shops, offices and warehouses that frame our modest lives. Twelve thousand days for work, and the balance of the time to play.

In a perfect world, my highest ambition might lie along the rusted rails south of town. That's where the freight trains gather speed for their northern journey, and it's the last chance to get on board. Two thousand miles of fields, rivers and sky turn the heart, and it races with the train.


Simple Truths

Post-nocturnal illuminationLast night I dreamed I was a partial genius. I knew everything, but could think of only one thing at a time. The elusive pattern-that-connects was nearly always obvious to me, but failed to generate the momentum required to overcome apathy. I was frequently inspired, but rarely energetic. My tastes favored the eclectic, but I hid them to avoid the appearance of eccentricity. Rational intuition guided my decisions, but self-sabotage spoiled their execution.

When I woke, I couldn't locate my right arm. Pinned under my body during the night, it was numb and unresponsive, and required assistance from the other arm in order to move at all.

Inspired by my mind's nocturnal handiwork, the metaphorical connection was immediately clear: A numb arm, like intellectual droopiness, is the result of too much sleep.


Imperfect Wisdom

A perfect messDuring my early-morning walk, I noticed an unusual insect perched on the branch of a peach tree. When I stopped to examine it, it spread its wings in a startling display of impossibly complex patterns, and iridescent hues that seemed to illuminate my surroundings. As I stood, wide-eyed, attempting to make sense of the apparition, it began to speak.

The beautiful insect imparted ancient mysteries; it told me the secrets of the universe. Every revelation shook the core of my being, and brought a new flood of tears. It was as if I were being torn to pieces, then rebuilt according to divine specifications. Time lost all meaning.

I don't know how long I sat in the orchard; it might have been hours, or days. The insect cocked its head, regarding me with an eye that seemed to hold eternities. I shivered, and rose to my feet.

As my mind began to clear, I noticed an imperfection in the beautiful insect's wings: one was slightly shorter than the other, and less colorful.

I squashed the insect with my thumb.