The Inkblot Hunt
I got my first hint of it in a secondhand bookstore in Hawaii when I was naive but in love with everything,
Flicking through musty pages in a captivated fever,
Findings and empirical trajectories promising the back-of-the-book answers to my
Incessant coffeeshop journaling questions.
I stalked that trail to weekend mornings in snug libraries and
Evenings chasing grades in the cracks between other life.
And each time I took a line or a sentence or a paragraph,
I got scent of some far-off vocational prey,
Or a silhouette of a future calling against the skyline.
There were whole years spent on indulgent collegiate safaris,
Landing nights of textbook insights,
And facedown naps in study cubicles amongst the tussocks of papers and deadlines.
But despite the sure path to greater inner Game,
Time would grow an ignorance in me somehow and it almost sent me off to empty blocks twice, and understocked catchments more times besides.
But for the roar on the breeze in some essay,
That pulled, pulled me once again, inevitably,
Careering headlong into a thirst for humanities trophies,
And soliciting for the secrets to the psyche.