The poetic and the pragmatic are often pitted against one another, as if they each have their own personality, will, and agenda. But of course, they are only names we give to constructs, ways we divide reality to be able to talk about it.
“Make it useful,” some might say, the fear of untamed beauty lurking but unseen, a shadow lost in a collective shadow.
“Make it art,” others might say. At what time was the geometry of a crystal ever but an expression of its nature?
Perhaps today a poem inspires a new item on your to-do list, or you’re midway through a self-help article on your phone when the battery dies, and suddenly you have nothing but your own, magnificent aloneness.