Yesterday was gorgeous. The November sun educed dazzling color from every leaf on every tree: aurulent, russet, cardinal red. But the sunlight stretched thin; the multitude of polychromasia expressed the piercing agony that precedes oblivion. It is ever thus with fall.
There are no heroes. Heroes are fanciful entities that we create to give color to our myths; to ascribe aesthetic value to our sordid histories. Nor are there geniuses. Genius is a contrivance that deludes us into believing that we might rise above. Faith and discipline are false prophets, promising an impossible paradise.
Such thoughts.
I poured it all out to the Old Man from my little vantage on Mount Tabor. Gray mists shrouded his feet. A white mane already lay thick on his shoulders. Of course, he gave no answer.
But I know he heard me.
Maty was waiting when I got home. We drove to the Indian restaurant to pick up our supper. By the time we started back the rain was falling like nobody's business.
No comments:
Post a Comment