Do your ears quite suddenly and without warning burn red? Do you still talk of the idea as some crucial arrival of greatness, your lean body tense with the need for constructive action? Or have they beat it out of you with long, spacious hours, and only a teasing glimpse of a gloss of blue sky wedged between square concrete buildings whose purpose you will never divine?
I put you in a book because every story requires the misunderstood hero and there are none greater than yourself. All night my abilities surge like disturbed electrical currents, tumbling forth when I depict your vivid greatness, only to sputter and stall when I heave myself into the abyss of your humiliation; trials, exotic accounting, it can so easily become flatwashed under unskilled hands. How can I explain when I do not understand myself? How do I grab the whole of humanity and accuse every one of wrongness? But I do. Accuse them. They are guilty.
Of course it would be you, the lovely bluet-eyed corporate visigoth who would compel me forward; brilliant man, to inspire even from your lonely prison yard. Your losses number in the thousands, yet you generously bestow greatness on any who wish to take it.
Two years ago I slipped your gift in my pocket and when I was alone, held it to the light like a jeweler looking through a loupe. Quality and brilliance. I began my arduous and joyful task. I am still writing, still holding myself accountable, to be worthy of the task.
Lone moments divided from the day remind me you are still banished. Still fighting, arguing. Your bluesplash eyes are still vivid mosaics of opportunity; you know it, even if they do not — yet. But they will, and quite soon.
Tell me, do your ears burn red?
Filed under Enron
Tagged as "Jeff Skilling"