The Poets
The lives of today’s poets will be forgotten. I can’t think of a handful of names that have made it through the 20th century, people whose lives will be known by a small throng of others who bask in the light of rarified thoughts, eagerly seeking transient miscellanea of the most esoteric and mind-flowering sort — that of a poet, clearly.
I wish it were not so, but if I ever not make it in all the other creative career paths that have haunted me, I will then become a lyric poet who is only concerned with the day-to-day, and I will live my life for myself and my thoughts, and when I die, I will leave behind a sordid life that the world shaped for me, through my own physical (ergo, economic) limitations.
It will be humorous to plumb the trite passerby day-to-day of my life — what I disliked and what I was unreasonable about. How fascinating — how my life lit up the moment I had found my arch nemesis over a fender-bender the guy was willing to go to court for, and how I plotted to kill him, to perform that fictional inanity, the perfect crime. How my life shot through circumstance upon circumstance beyond my will not like voluntary breathing but like the unstoppable beating of my heart, and how it was released into a chamber that held only my volition.
How I was given no choice, how the world was not made for such thought, and how it still makes room for it somehow.