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Leaves in the Wind

ByJoseph Mele, Jr.


Yesterday, writing was like trying to lasso a plume of smoke. A crude, vain conceit. A poor substitute for real communication. A scribble of meaningless symbols, random as a windblown pile of leaves.

Today I am astounded by the worlds created by authors I've read, by the depth of emotion expressed, by the healing power of thoughts conveyed in ink.

Today, I think back to a property of holograms I had heard about. When a particular type of holographic plate is shattered, each shard holds the entire image, but most of it is a low resolution blur.  Only a small portion is sharp and in focus.

Human beings, I like to think, share this quality. Each of us, as a minute part of an entirety, has a vague grasp of a larger truth, but perceives, in painful detail, through the window of our personal experiences, a small piece of a greater reality. Through writing and reading, we can expand our individual perceptions, and attain a somewhat more comprehensive view.






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