lyricism.

it's not true that you can't see stars in the city. the past few nights, the sky has been flecked with points of incredible brightness. i stared at the moon tonight and wondered if it was better to be able to reflect light with the shimmering grace of the moon, or absorb it in the insatiable insistence of the sun. growing up, i loved those long summer nights with the cool remembrance of the heat of the day, lying on damp grass, getting lost in the dizzying array of bursts of light. there is something very undemocratic about the sky - how only the brightest things get seen. and i know that i have always wanted both - to be both bright enough to get seen and small enough to get lost. i guess i still do.

i'm postponing writing a short essay about where i see myself five years after law school. i want to ask them if they know that if the sun were to burn out completely, that it would take at least 2, maybe 3, years before we felt a physical difference. that the moon would still be reflecting the light of something that ceased to exist for years. so my answer is this: if the night sky would still be the same given the absence of the brightest of stars, how does anyone know how a moment, or a series of moments, with people we've met and people we will meet affect us or cease to affect us? will we even begin to be able to say what the possibilities are?

but here's what i'll do: i will take a shower, think about doing my taxes, and hope tomorrow will bring a little less obstinance and a little less lyricism and a lot more pragmatism. i will say that i will be both insatiable in my desire to absorb the world and vigilant in my task of reflecting it. that i will demand both from myself. and i will strip away the metaphors, all the while hearing the question, "Yes, that's very pretty, but what exactly will you be doing?"