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"All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Message to Readers

Thanks so much for looking at my piece! I'd love to see what feeling/sense you're left with after reading, if any. -CSAW

The World's Ambition

January 12, 2016


I noticed him sitting on a bench in the square,  
Where the bricks were paved with aspirations,
fountains spewed ambition,
and a longing for something greater was served in every coffee cup.
He stood out like ,
a blue jay among masses of phoenix,
with his quiet projection of unwavering satisfaction
overpowering the worry’s and longings of the special birds,
who are trying to stand out in a world where everyone is on a journey to surpass those around them.

I know the feeling.

I can't imagine a world without a need to leave a legacy,
with a name shining in gold that will always be remembered,
even if the inscription is engraved in lead,
Hidden underneath a statue consecrated in honor of someone who will live forever,
even if the passers by don't care enough to know who it is
too involved in making their own names heard amidst the singing of the world.

I know the feeling.

And that's why I, whose life has been enveloped in a blanket of
"Do Great Things,"
cannot comprehend the sight of this man,
who sits on the stone wall of gems and treasures the one pebble
just because it is the ordinary that he has always known,
Taking solace in the familiar.
He, of average build,
unremarkable features,
and a forgettable lifestory,
doesn't mind about how he is little more than a dot on the pages of history.
And I cannot pretend to know anything about what that feels like,
with the very human spirit's drive to go further
pushing me
and dragging me down the up the mountain that I never signed up to climb,
but now am so determined to reach the peak that nothing could send me reeling back down.

But I look at this man,
so content at where he is in life,
with fulfillment exuding off of everything that he touched,
I wonder what it would be like to be him,
and not have the world's pressure on your shoulders.

Because I don't know anything about that feeling.

As I turn, my head shaking,
I catch the slightest whiff of coffee in the air,
the bitter smell cutting crisp with the many who hunger.
I see the man with an empty cup clutched in his right hand,
now noticing the fountain dark with the fluid of superiority  
that has been discarded by he who no longer needs it,
he who I can now see wears a look that only can convey a knowledge that this is not what survives,
a widom of
why he was put on the earth if it was not to further an understanding,
even if it’s one that he holds.
He has spent his driven life learning just as I have,
but he has reached a place where he has unlocked everything that I wish I could be.

And there are no lengths that I wouldn't go to to know that feeling,
to no longer be one amongst the crowd
fruitlessly struggling
for a fufillment that has only been told with the sense of a dream.

As I look back at him, with his mind at ease,
I see the degree of utter blissful happiness he finds himself within
without sharing the knowledge with the world.
For his life is not determined by a person remembering his name off the top of his head,
every major decisions no longer informed by whether or not it would influence the writer's mind,
and now whether he can finally relax and just observe the haze of activity that he will no longer cultivate.

He, sitting on the park bench,
no longer needs to drink any of the coffee for a greater idea
as he sits without furvor,
observing all of those bricks those bricks that he walks over every day. 
Yet his statue will never be put up.


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  • January 12, 2016 - 1:33pm (Now Viewing)

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