A Little Caffeinated, and Waiting.

It was supposedly something to kill my Friday, stated as such with the disclaimer that it would, as certain as the sender may think of it, murder my Friday in all literal sense. The sender also told me that it was a Wall of Text. At 77 pages, it could be.

But a guy like me, who does little reading, or perhaps just much less than he should, can tell you that this particular Wall of Text is very climbable. And once I had set my rappels right and made sure I had that courage to do the Wall the justice it deserves, I began reading.

That was 77 pages ago (ok, I cheated; I didn’t go through the Works Cited section, because I wanted to get to the ending and referential formats confuse me still). And I have not done it justice, because my horrendously low sense of academics meant I have difficulty in understanding parts of it (of which is entirely my fault) and that I have no capability of producing any form of coherent and intelligent comment to this work. In fact, my simple brain can only say this, in the way that I have always said it, to the sender and to everyone that would care to listen:

She is Amazing.

It normally only takes a sight, and a little Get-to-knowing her to come to this conclusion. But reading this, the apparent became certainty.

I am Amazed.

She would call me biased. She would rap my head if she could, and then tell me that it was much less to do with her than it has to do with fortune or luck or guidance. But I would’ve rapped her head back, and told her that it takes someone Amazing to turn that fortune and luck and guidance into this amazing piece of study.

“So what?” she might say, and I imagine that a soft frown would decorate her face, and she might divert her eyes to think or to muse. “Other passionate people, with hard work, could’ve done it.”

But other passionate people might not have the Love you have for your work.

If her work was indeed a Wall of Text, in the figurative sense, then it would’ve been a crafted wall. It has its patterns, surely; all Wall of Texts do. But it also has a Life. There are not many walls in the world, figurative or literal, that has a Life. A wall may only have a Life if it’s given one. Usually, it’s when Love is poured into it, as part of the concrete and the bricks.

I touched the Wall, and it touched back. And when it did, I knew I owe it to myself to finish it. For the first time in a long time, I made coffee and sat down to read. Coffee not because reading it is boring or sleep inducing, but because I wanted to rid of the day’s inkling of tiredness that followed me home from work.

And I read, and made sure I understood as best as I could. I read and found myself learning. Best of all, and this I wasn’t even surprised to discover; I read and I am intrigued.

It was a study. And if I could’ve given her the marks, I would’ve marked it as Perfect.

She would’ve rapped my head again and told me it has flaws. Maybe her lecturer would, too (not the rapping. But I imagine a similar form of pain induction, perhaps in a glare or a Tsk, because I would’ve been a Know-It-All and probably deserved it). But I would point out that it’s perfect because you can feel the Love in every word written.

Love in the subject. Love in the discovery. Love in the learning and the teaching and the devotion to it.

It was, above all, a work of Love. Those are always the best works, and flawed as they may seem to be, they’re Perfect in that sense.

But where’s my constructive argument? Where are my intellectual comments, my justifications and my dissection of the study laid upon an autopsy table section by section so that I may prove to you that it is Perfect? I can’t, because I’m not academic. I can’t because I’m not worthy of it. I can’t because my thought process has already regressed back to its primitive state, and soon I would be back on my hands and knees, trying to figure out the mechanics of peeling bananas.

You have nothing but my words. And I can only tell you that it’s true.

In my hard drive now sat a study I made; the only one I’ve ever done. It was, at one point, something like a Wall with promises. On the billboard, it promised a lot. When it came to constructing it, however, I used cheap materials and cut corners and botched it. It’s now not a wall, but a piece of wood. With words on it, and arrows, that point out to people that this is a Wall.

Thankfully, people aren’t fooled. Though they gave me marks for the effort. I guess it was the arrows.

The funny thing is that part of this wood was actually Love. It had nails jutting out of it, but they were the bits I hammered it. It was ugly, but you can touch it, and it’ll touch back. Though it’ll give you tetanus.

One day I might make use of it. Burn it, as firewood, or send it out to sea, as part of a ship. Or maybe hang it up, as a memento, of how to start something with Love and forsaking it for the sake of ease.

Now, though, I leant it against her Wall and stepped back for the bigger picture.

Amazing how one can feel so small, and so wishing to be big at the same time.