still burning
We start where everything starts. Potency. A block of wood. Plato spoke of it. Mr. Magorium made use of it. And it was where Ms. Musical Molly realized that she had what it takes, that her fingers’ “quirks” are really up to something.
We all have blocks of wood. We are all stumps of wood. And it is up to us to sculpt ourselves. Or to sprout little new verdant leaves.
And yet.
As with everything in life, there’s always a catch attached. Today’s would be that this beautiful fact of potencies—dreams, so to speak—is easier said than done.
When you were but a young sapling, you felt that staying strong and unbent in the face of the world and its mighty winds would be doable, or easy even. As a sparse-feathered sparrow, you ventured an inch off the nest, and you thought that you were an eagle ready to conquer the azure realm.
And yet.
The first gusts threw you down on your feeble roots. You looked up to the heavens, and a prayer escaped your lips. It’s tiring to face the world. Mother Nature’s first push was also your first fall, your first crash landing. Thump. It’s a harsh forest out there.
And yet.
You did not long for the protecting arms of the Ents. You did not pine for the comfort of the nest. No. You believed that you were strong—you could take the next winds, the eager hard earth. Failure was the material that could take you up among the hard elders who makes less than a creak. It would take you to the clouds so that you can look down upon the earth with the eyes of a conqueror.
And yet.
You turned out to be just another jester’s material. Fit for entertainment. You remained the block of wood that you are. The potency longed for the act. It would have been even nicer to have someone cut you down and sold you to some sculptor. You were a fine wood, after all. You could have made a glorious statue for everybody to gawk and be amazed at, shake their heads, and wish that they could be as grand. But you could also have been a mere paperweight on an ignored table, gathering dust. Do you want to trade for the bust by the corner? He may have been some great personality. But you could have just been that—a bust, a recreation for some ancient has-been.
Even then, it could have been a good existence. You would want to be a bust than some firewood.
At first, you laughed at the glorious statue. He was getting old. His fine contours were cracking, smoothness was roughening. He was drooping, disintegrating. Should have been better to have moss clinging to it. You also mocked the paperweight. It couldn’t breathe anymore, much less cough up the dust that became his rags of a clothing. Secret holes inside were making him weightless. And the bust? Oh, that poor bust was anything but. He could hold anything from coats to bowler hats. And then his polish ran out. His nose fell off.
At least you were a firewood. There was some warmth in you, some light, some fire. Yes, you could help a great big pyre fit for a mighty king. Playing small, you could still cook something. Yup, now you’re cooking. Food for the brain. Nourishment for the soul.
Even as just another piece of fuel, you made your tiny licks and left your marks. You smiled as your warmth provided for the creation of some things more than a simple wood—paper and the ink blots that posed as words and thoughts. Ink blots. More like a child’s doodles. But it was all right. It’s good, I’m good, you told yourself. There will be master scribes on my way. Oh, and how you burned! You burned with the eager fires of youth! Every little thing that you touched burst aflame too. Hot! That was what you were. Blazing!
Until.
You realized that you could break off even just a splinter of you. Some charcoal, and you could be a pencil and do your own doodles. Hell, you could make more than some blots!
But.
It was too late. Everything around you was nothing but embers already. Every fucking splinter. And so you burned and you burned. You discovered how it was to feel burnt out, but you added more meaning to the term. How is it to feel burnt out but still burn? For Christ’s sake, how! It was all you could do for a prayer. But you prayed even more. For Death. Ashes. For even though you could feel every fucking inch of you sting with the flames, you gave off no warmth. Sunshine on a gray and cloudy winter day.
Man, oh, man, are we not just exaggerated bovine creatures? We trade our souls for some cud to chew on all day. The one thing that sets us extremely at odds with those four-legged, five-stomached mooers is that we grow our own grass in the summer and make our own hay for winter. Fucking overrated!
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