The framework of my current setting is absolutely Utopian.
Near a window I sit, uninterrupted. The panes of glass stretch upward of 10 feet and outside, the snow is falling in perfect rhythm. There isn’t a lone soul breathing down my neck, or blathering my ear off. There are no jarring fluorescent lights overhead to kill the natural ambience.
There are only several, who are going about their day such as I am, sitting in their own little spheres by the window. There is a cup of mocha, and a computer with half battery life to get me through this fleeting tranquility. There is a man sitting across from me, puckering his lips as he licks the food off his fingers. This should bother me, but today it simply doesn’t. This moment is wonderful.
I feel somewhat inspired by it all. The snow, the windows, the serenity I so rarely come across. I’ve grown weary, somewhat exhausted of writing in the corner of my room. It has become such a place that is so draining and unstimulating, its inspiration stretched and reworked to the point of expiration. I’ve taken pictures of every corner of it, assessed every object. I need to explore more, I need to get out.
In my photo class we watched a documentary on Ansel Adams. I had surely seen his work before and heard of him, but had never known his story. Call me fragile, dramatic, or what have you, but his story truly moved me to the point I felt overcome with great emotion. He was such a vigorous, hardworking and devoted artist driven by his surroundings and the yearning to convey them just as they were: beautiful. He never took a day off. He traveled, he studied, he conquered. He was candidly brilliant and his work, though absolutely immaculate, doesn’t even begin to prove it. He was a genius.
It’s still snowing, only now the caretaker has moved in on his floor cleaning machine, and the fluorescent lights have been set overhead, adding forgery to the atmosphere.
The transient serenity has passed, the moment of reflection over; time to pack up and carry on.