I've been thinking about a topic that came up in a discussion with other writers a few nights ago: The relentless pursuit of the perfectly inspired line of descriptive pose, so original as to make the reader gush with praise and other writers weep that their own creativity hadn't given birth a string of words worthy of a sonnet.
Is not simple sometimes the most universal language of feelings and emotions? The timeless metaphors found in the most coveted literature translate to life's experiences, shared. Concepts of time and dreams and choices have often been compared to roads. Roads found in New Guinea. Roads stretched out across territories and roads bricked in front of the mom and pop bakery three blocks away. The deepest feelings of the human condition cannot be found in the brilliant glint of words, fractured and polished like a stained glass window in a Roman cathedral only a handful of readers have visited. For when the light passes, the resonating quality has vanished with the sun and the image is in danger of being forgotten.
Like well-worn ruts in the road, traveled by every man, woman and child, the path of our deepest connection to readers may lie in the flow of images most familiar.