The; Wild Horses
With respect to the works and legacy of Stephen Hillenburg
I look to the television screen and see a mirror,
though I do not know it to be such yet.
A pencil glides across paper
cheered on by its holder, plucky as ever
pouring his heart and soul onto the page
He gazes upon his handicraft
baroque and magnificent, it reads as thus:
It’s the first part of what should be a greater whole
yet all through the night, that’s all there is.
An opus, stillborn.
The mind wanders far from its tracks,
only re-railed at the last second
out of sheer, impending necessity.
So long ago, this was just a farce to me
distant from reality
but time and time again, it plays out
with me in the lead.
Me, writing a simple “The” and mustering nothing more
chasing a million other things
as though there’s no rush, no deadline
hanging over me like Damocles’ sword.
That isn’t to say that I pretend it isn’t there;
it’s prescient, and it drowns me
in an ocean of dread, all-consuming.
Yet, I sit there
at my desk
pencil in hand
like a simple sponge
staring at the page,
decorated by the scarcest of marks,
my excuse for a night’s handiwork:
I’m always chasing
the tales of wild horses,
calling for me to venture out,
so breakneck as they run away from me,
giving little hope I can ever keep pace
(not that I've ever been terribly athletic).
I reach for the reins, and sometimes,
I hold on, saddling the storied stallion I prize
but it bucks and it twists and I’m thrown off,
left with mere threads in hand
so it’s back to the drawing board,
to the fields to chase
another wild horse.
All the same,
I dream of the day
when I catch the right horse for me,
strong enough to carry the weight of a world.
Oh, to feel the wind in my hair as the action rises!
To ride for hours until the sunset brings our denouement!
To let the action fall as we retire
to our stable at night.
Until then, I'll keep on