I was the shadow of the waxwing slain; by the false azure in the windowpane.
There come times like these when I feel a sense of abounding hopelessness. For all that which I have strove so greatly, I am rewarded with no more than paltry remarks and a blunted spirit. The hopelessness does not arise from the failure itself but rather from the disparity between what the world thinks of my work and what I do of them myself.
Had not my final stroke left the paper with gusto and pride? Had I not perused it and given myself an invisible pat on the back? Had I not expected whomever my work reached to afford it greater notice? And yet, sadly, reality proved them all to be hoaxes played on me by pride’s own magnifying glass.
How then can I ever hope to succeed when my measurements of success are so tangibly off the universal scales? And will not any glory in which I bask exist only in an unseen dell when truly I desire for it to exist beyond; in milieu of multitudinous minds? Perhaps I simply am not as gifted as often we are made to believe of ourselves. Perhaps I too am a commoner.