Lilly green, concentric circles dangle around themselves. Confident, leather-back sofas hug the corroded, marble walls. The only window, cast in a wrought iron seal, radiates up from the floor. And in the middle, lost behind towers of books, I sit with an aggressively strong cup of coffee.
Saturday – Sabbath to some and work week to others – I soak up the words of a Jesuit scholar. I’ve done this before, this furtive gazing at books. Something in hearing the sermon of black-and-white words, in facing a truth all its own, pulls me toward quiet and wandering thoughts.
Then, I pull out the paper and write. I write my confusion in questions, spell my assent with iron-clad hymns. Or maybe, if humble enough in my doubt, I toy with the right combination of fuels, igniting in climax my guttural arguments.
Why do I do this? Who cares enough to read and to learn; or else, to read and convict? Pages with rainbows of color and paragraphs unnumbered, words of formidable character and ideas with pause – these do not answer, rebut, or contend. They speak, one-sided, and hope for the best.
So I market my thoughts in ink to the world. My heart on my sleeve, never caring what damage might come. I lust for attention, for answers and riddles unraveling certain contentions I make. But who has seen the words I have written? Who culls the patience to observe, contain, process, and respond? There are some – but enough? What is enough? How big the discussion, how lively the talk before I am satisfied?
They say – and have said and will surely repeat – that it does me good in myself to hear my mind rattling in print. But this drive that I hold, this passion is not only for me, not hardly for me – but for many and more and others who have never considered these thoughts.
I ask again, and ask with demand for an answer: what is the point of a prolific muse if he does not inspire the passionate minds of a passionate people so very diverse? If it is time’s only answer to wait a good year or fifty, what else can I do but complain? But if not, what is the key I am missing? How many more words will I waste on the sleeping concern of people who fail to hear me?
And then – twice as much in frustration – what is the point of passion to drive humanity forward if it all comes back to my friendship with words and writings divorced from the God-ordained practice of movement?
In short, for those who are listening and not yet asleep: what is my point at all in a village of play things and Lincoln Log dreams? At the end of the day, into their boxes they go.