Plea #81: The Pursuit Some people become so caught up in creating art that they start to miss out on the life that once inspired it.
Every sight is reduced to inspiration. Every book is derivative and cliche.
In their pursuit of appreciation, they begin to miss the art for the details.
I'm that person.
I can no longer see a piece without deconstructing its creation.
Without getting into the ultimately underwhelming headspace of the craftsman.
There's not a machine around that I haven't solved. There's no mystery to any of it anymore.
No wonder. No intrigue.
I enjoyed solving things in the beginning. Learning to analyze.
But soon, the study consumed me. The once learned practices became innate.
My mind set off on its own.
I gave it the tools to ruin the only thing that was truly interesting in this life, and now it's ruining me.
I wish I could go back.
I yearn to ogle at things beyond my understanding.
I wish I could ooh at a faucet and ahh at a gate.
The more we cherish the novel, the faster we race to its end.
The faster you chase after the bunny, the further it goes.
Somewhere along the line, after the years had piled, my stride became automatic.
My legs chased on their own.
And eventually, the cunning rabbit veered at a fork, and my legs carried on without him.
Without a destination, they press on still.
No longer because they have a goal or purpose, but because by now, the sprint is all they can remember.