If all goes according to plan, someone at some distant point in time will notice a rock settled deeply into decades of composted leaves in one of the few remaining American forests, and with a start, realize that it has a name! He is tempted to take it with him but even though he’s on the return path home from a soul-refreshing walk in the rare parts left to nature, it seems a little heavy to carry any distance. He half-squats down to take a closer look and then spots the much smaller rock just touching to its left that seems to have a name as well. But no, this one just has a chiseled “Self-Defeatist Extraordinaire”. Since it’s small and less personalized than “Susan” he can slip it in his pocket, and this is what he does before he goes his way.
I’m glad he has stolen this weight I’ve carried through my lifetime, but worry that while he’s freed me, by his interest or amusement he may carry the burden well upon himself throughout his years.
In other words, in the midst of doubt about my words, I now discover—and this was self-imposed with all accompanying inspiration and excitement—that I’ve lost the touch at art as well. At age ten I was phenomenal, and now I draw no better that I did then.
Told you I’d lighten it up a little today, didn’t I?
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The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology