When Bob wrote with Sarah's pen, it felt as though he could write something new, as though the pen had its own words available, or at least its own sentences. He suddenly felt like he could write a poem, something he had never bothered with before. Prose was so much more effective, after all, even for creating emotion. Paragraphs were more goal-oriented than stanzas, and the poem's broken lines seemed to just hang there without purpose.
He never ceased to be amused by the many mystified people who tried it, and how it diluted their already questionable writing ability. Once again, they were searching for gods. They saw poetry as a pathway.
He wrote god inside the o of god. He wrote moon inside the moons of moon.
"Is this my first poem?" he thought. Then he laughed to himself because he could publish these in a prestigious publication. He knew all the right people. How absurd it was to be powerful. Most things that people dream about and strive for he could simply arrange for himself. He could even be a rock star. He laughed out loud. As if he would ever indulge himself like that! Imagine wasting time and resources for such ego-stroking masturbatory pipe dreams. Rock Star. Poet. In some ways, Poet was even worse because it implies this sort of spiritual superiority. I feel more deeply than you. I understand more deeply. I charge for my feelings and insights because they are more important than yours.
Bob never charged for his insights. Whenever people pay for something, they tend to think it's worth what they paid for it. The price puts a limit on its value and, by extension, on his value. So instead they receive this pearl without price, and they feel blessed, as when they come upon a rainbow on a wet afternoon -- the only difference being an additional feeling: feeling beholden to Bob.
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