Musing

Over the past few weeks I've begun to grasp what it is to be a creation. That is to say that I have come to understand my finite-ness in a very different way. Rather than being frustrated by my lack of output (strictly in an artistic sense), I've been learning to appreciate the fact that, regardless of what I create, I am part of a greater story. It's as if I'm one strand being woven through a greater work, and what I might be tempted to call a loose end will one day wind it's way to a fitting destination. And, because of that wondrous notion (that I am a mere character questioning my author) I can look back on the recently past years of my life and find some sort of peace with them.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
stand in the desert...Near them, on the sand,
half shrunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
and wrinkled lip, a sneer of cold command,
tell that it's sculptor well those passions read
which yet survived, stamped on these lifeless things,
the hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
the lone level sands stretch far away.
Ozymandias ~P.B Shelley