genius

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Since I am no genius, I do not know, but I can imagine that geniuses, from time to time, must come upon a place in which they purely loathe their genius and long for some realm beyond the gilded city ... a place where elephants walk with stately step and men, perhaps, grow carrots.

Picking on geniuses is probably not fair, but, like "sex" or "money," "genius" entices literate and unwary fish and I'm not above baiting the hook.

Is there a man or woman whose burnished spires do not crowd around, tighter and tighter in the wake of well-crafted choices, and then cry out for some relief from all this wannabe bliss, the tightly mortared bricks of genius?

The house, the kids, the job, the adventures far and wide, the sacrifices, the accumulations of belief and hope and meaning and explanation, the holy lights, the dress and drama -- all of them shining in other men's eyes while these eyes, poor dears, grow dimmer and dimmer.

Genius is limited.

But you knew that.

Why else the fear and loathing?
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