The Quasi-Plagiarist: On Words, the Creation

Beauty is bound always with the act of hostility—the world in one sweep of His word, poetry in the utter defeat of language, the birth of a masterpiece in the triumph of color against canvas. From a window in his cloistered room, he could see the sky, scarred by all eyes who watch over its malady. The world is a sea—as blue as the city that never sleeps, as blue as the hills slumbering nearby. These scenes are weary to him—save the restless sky, spouse of the angry ocean, who travels

on its head the depths of the night. You once sat beside me and it calmed the angry waves of my heart, conquered by your open offer of peace. Almost was I shattered by your brief gestures: the way you silently waited for your bus, the longing in your eyes for a chance to have somewhere to finally go home to. My mind was blank, except these thoughts—

I would like to go home with you. I would like nearness without the element of astonishment, because the doors to my happiness are shut and words fail me in your presence. I would like to sleep in the folds of your eyes, wake up as a speck of dust nestled in your shoulder, or in your barren hand—

that I would struggle to tame. I wanted—to speak—the poetry of your silence—your unblemished quiet—your innocence, your own of colony of beauty that does not need, that does not want anything else.