(no subject)
A block of sandstone sits before me, that tannish-brown color of cane sugar, though I doubt it's half as sweet. A point rises from the top, three inches or so, and a there's file in my hand. That jagged peak is useless. Right now, it's far too much stone. Right now, all I want to do is cut, grind, shape.
"That's going to take a lot longer than you think," she says from across the table. I only smirk.
Watch me, bitch.
The file cuts into the stone and that pungent tang of metal rises to my nostrils. It smells like money. Like the money I'm wasting.
Scratch.
There goes my first car.
Scratch.
There goes my second.
Scratch.
There goes my car insurance bill.
It's piling up now, all that loose sand. Minature mountains of worthless dirt, unusable potential. I am the squanderer of three inches of possibility. I am the waster of thousands of dollars.
Seventeen minutes on the dot it takes me to get rid of that space. Once it's off, it's gone. Piled up. She helped me hold it. Helped me whittle away at all that 'extra'. And why shouldn't she? It's not like she needs it. Now I look at the sandstone. It's perfect. A five by five by seven solid. Right now, it's not enough. Right now, I'm scrambling for a way to make that flawless peakless block bigger.
Scratch.
There goes my application fee.
Scratch.
There goes my housing fee.
Scratch.
There goes my tuition.
I'm frustrated. There's far less block than I'd imagined. It's not enough. It's never enough. Why was I so naive? I needed those three inches. But I still have those three inches. They're broken into a thousand grains, dashed to a million places on the table. I wasted them. I could have saved them.
Scratch.
There go my plans.
Scratch.
There go my parents to the financial advisor.
Scratch.
There goes my sister's education.
It's looking rough, that block-turned shapeless thing. It's rounded now, a rudimentary smaller sphere on top of a larger. Corners are cut. Things are created. Maybe it's not so bad after all. She helps me again, the self-satisfied know-it-all.
"You'll never do it," she says. "It's too hard."
Watch me, bitch.
She's gone now, and I'm alone. I'm scratching furiously. Clawing randomly. Something's forming, though. I'm using all I can. I'm making something with my own hands and I couldn't be more excited. "What will it be?" they all ask me. The truth is, I don't know. I've only got this little block of stone to work with, and it's whittling away to nothing. What if I don't end up making something beautiful? What if it's a waste of my time? What if the sand's piling up for nothing?
Scratch.
There goes my dignity.
Scratch.
There goes my life.
Scratch.
There goes my education.
It's all coming out okay now. That kind of looks like a head, and there's a beak. Two wings and two little feet poking out. So it's smaller than I imagined. That's okay. I'll have to make do with what I can. I'm thinking to myself, "Look at all that wasted potential. All that piled up garbage. You'd better make something good."
Watch me, bitch.
"That's going to take a lot longer than you think," she says from across the table. I only smirk.
Watch me, bitch.
The file cuts into the stone and that pungent tang of metal rises to my nostrils. It smells like money. Like the money I'm wasting.
Scratch.
There goes my first car.
Scratch.
There goes my second.
Scratch.
There goes my car insurance bill.
It's piling up now, all that loose sand. Minature mountains of worthless dirt, unusable potential. I am the squanderer of three inches of possibility. I am the waster of thousands of dollars.
Seventeen minutes on the dot it takes me to get rid of that space. Once it's off, it's gone. Piled up. She helped me hold it. Helped me whittle away at all that 'extra'. And why shouldn't she? It's not like she needs it. Now I look at the sandstone. It's perfect. A five by five by seven solid. Right now, it's not enough. Right now, I'm scrambling for a way to make that flawless peakless block bigger.
Scratch.
There goes my application fee.
Scratch.
There goes my housing fee.
Scratch.
There goes my tuition.
I'm frustrated. There's far less block than I'd imagined. It's not enough. It's never enough. Why was I so naive? I needed those three inches. But I still have those three inches. They're broken into a thousand grains, dashed to a million places on the table. I wasted them. I could have saved them.
Scratch.
There go my plans.
Scratch.
There go my parents to the financial advisor.
Scratch.
There goes my sister's education.
It's looking rough, that block-turned shapeless thing. It's rounded now, a rudimentary smaller sphere on top of a larger. Corners are cut. Things are created. Maybe it's not so bad after all. She helps me again, the self-satisfied know-it-all.
"You'll never do it," she says. "It's too hard."
Watch me, bitch.
She's gone now, and I'm alone. I'm scratching furiously. Clawing randomly. Something's forming, though. I'm using all I can. I'm making something with my own hands and I couldn't be more excited. "What will it be?" they all ask me. The truth is, I don't know. I've only got this little block of stone to work with, and it's whittling away to nothing. What if I don't end up making something beautiful? What if it's a waste of my time? What if the sand's piling up for nothing?
Scratch.
There goes my dignity.
Scratch.
There goes my life.
Scratch.
There goes my education.
It's all coming out okay now. That kind of looks like a head, and there's a beak. Two wings and two little feet poking out. So it's smaller than I imagined. That's okay. I'll have to make do with what I can. I'm thinking to myself, "Look at all that wasted potential. All that piled up garbage. You'd better make something good."
Watch me, bitch.