Biding time

There is a most vain class among men which, despising ordinary things, fixes its eyes upon distant things, pursuing empty air with idle hopes… Immediate gratification demands mediocrity. Obsession takes time – its time, self-governing its own fulfilment. There are only two tragedies in life – not getting what you want, and getting it. Those tragedies are mitigated either, in obsession, by assuring that one’s reach always exceeds one’s grasp, or, in mediocrity, by settling for less than one really wants, needs, or desires, granted to her or to him more expediently that which neither she, he, her wish, or his, are worthy.

Into my life of extremes, mediocrity has never peeked its ugly head, never ventured across my threshold. Interest, fascination, infatuation, obsession, love, art…all lie in mystery rather than identity. For me, then, concealment and invention are more vital than honesty and reality. Routine, elevated to ritual, ensures obsession’s predominance. Yes, pink is an obsession…as is the kiss (clasp)…and fine, genuine leather…and small pouches, purses, boxes…any receptacle…container, holder, vessel…suitable for the secrecy of a treasure, treasures. Despite and still, though truth is a patient goal, an end which waits all ending, man is a fretful man, and, sometimes, I, too, find time difficult in its biding.