Waste

Mondays always set my mind reeling through time and space as I sit in English and listen to my professor rattle off memorized passages of poetry, obscure facts, unforeseen connections, and incredible stories. I think that he is Wikipedia. Somehow, he just knows everything. I want to be like that when I grow up. I think I'd better read more to get there. . .

This poem is becoming increasingly more fascinating to me as we discuss it and it wrap my mind tightly around ideas and phrases and hold them there until they assimilate in my brain. This sort of literature is illuminating, moving literature that sticks with you, warms you, begs re-read after re-read. Some literature is like a firework, brief and beautiful, surprising for a flash but gone before it settles. You can't warm yourself by a firework however. This is not like a firework, but a roaring fire that keeps you close and pulls you closer as the embers burn down and the heat is transfered into your frame. It's beautiful in its own right, and it takes patience to discover.

I feel like my patience is finally paying off in more realms than just the literary ones. A friend told me the other day that you just have to move on, having patience that things will work out, and eventually the feelings will flee as fast as the seemed to come. Maybe distance is aiding in healing over the bitterness, maybe the pollution in the air is leaving no room for anything else to be breathed in, but whatever the case I feel myself finally reaching a state of clarity. It's clearer here in the wide open air of a city packed so tightly and richly that it's hard to believe there is room enough for me.