April 1: He Could Still Be Right in Romanticizing Smoldering Paper

I’ve been thinking a lot about the trite adages that I call pollution to the way we, as you and me and anyone else who these words are cared for by, frame the world. Like neat little pictures laminated and clipped and bound to become Our Book of Thought of sorts, I resign to sigh and admit that we have really rounded up the cattle of meaning, meaning the lenses I’ve become accustomed to and grown too large for—even this! I haven’t grown, just changed, again like a lens, and now I see things a little differently, but I’m really much the same and I haven’t outgrown my old corrections—are found fresh daily for others. I drift into dichotomies, somehow believing without a foundation for belief that in this world we either have glasses or we don’t, but the truth of this limited analogy could be somewhere here: you don’t know of my old revelations drying with the rest of my neglected laundry, and I will really never be able to distinguish between your old, shed perspectives and the delicate under garments you routinely pin up beside them. One of them that will draw me to linger a little longer than I should, though, and I sort of wonder if that’s something I will ever outgrow, or if that’s just a pane, too.