An Introspection on Perfection

By Anya Shroff

An Introspection on Perfection

by fourth year Meghan Hawley

I attempt to create with my hands

what brought forth from my mind:

chasing a loose leaf of paper in the wind

The crevices of my gray matter bring 

sparks of electricity to light

and suddenly an idea is born

I form from rib, lump of clay, pool of mud

carving shaping ideating

abstract to concrete 

I hold creation in my palms, my fingers press 

ink on paper bleeding lines across my knuckles

ink like tears dripping down my cheeks

I yearn for perfection but Prometheus escapes my childlike grasp,

I am rib, lump of clay, pool of mud—not yet ready to receive fire

She slips her hand away from mine and looks into my eyes

“I am but a fabrication of reality.

You do not need me.

Make a mess and relish in its glory.”

Suddenly the ideas fade away

and my thoughts slow

and I am at peace.

I put my pen to paper and let the words fall out.