A Round Tile in a Square World

The tiles felt uneasy this morning as it had been discovered by the mistress that one of them had decided to sit congruent to the rest of them. One of the other tiles had awoken during the night to the sound of vinyl scratching and the sucking noise of glue becoming unfastened. A popping sound erupted and soon there lay one solitary tile, out of place, congruent, erratically strewn amidst the other, systematically laid, tiles.
The tile who had awoken to the building noise was troubled by the scene. None of the tiles had ever before been possessed to move out of sync with the others. They had been designed by a draftsman, pressed in an automated factory, stacked in meticulous grid fashion, boxed in symmetrical containers, laid by careful hands, and had remained content on the kitchen floor in a perfectly composed checkerboard pattern for nigh of twenty years, and then suddenly, one of them had moved!
As the morning sun entered the window the dust in the air once again rose and fell in a lilting fashion as it always had. The dew rose from the grass, the house creaked and shifted, and the people in the house began to rummage about as people tend to do. However, the tiles felt completely in disarray. One of their brothers had fallen out of line, thus catastrophically altering the perfect symmetry of the pattern that kitchen tiles generally prefer to lay in.
The tiles were tentative to act. They were self-conscious of the fact that sooner or later the mistress would find them in general disarray unless they were to act quickly, but acting quickly, much less acting at all, is not something that kitchen tiles like to do. So the other tiles simply sat there, each of them feeling distress at the disarray and chaos of the one who chose to change. They felt numb to act but were in terror at the fact that one of them had.
The tile that had moved was in a world of discovery. His bottom side was exposed to an air flow previously unfamiliar to him. It gave him a sense of weightlessness that exillerated and inspired him. He gazed up at a ceiling that looked exactly the same as it always had except that now he was viewing it from a 37 degree angle. Suddenly his entire world had changed. Without anything different occurring in his environment his world had changed, and it was all due to his one moment of motivation called motion. The tile soon realized that the world was a subjective place and that his perception of it was it his command.
The other tiles did not share the renegade tile’s point of view. In fact, they were quickly moving from uneasiness to outrage! How dare that tile move autonomously, without any regard for how they might feel. The other tiles knew it was only a matter of time before the mistress discovered the whole fiasco. But what could the other tiles do, especially when ‘doing’ was the root of the very problem itself. By doing anything at all the other tiles would only make things worse! And so they all sat, trembling, unsettled, and weary of what things may come.
The mistress did indeed discover the loose tile, and to the bemusement of the other tiles, seemed to think the situation was quite trivial. She simply retrieved the glue from the drawer, smeared a generous goop upon the underside of the offset tile and proceeded to replace it upon the floor.
As the days stretched on the other tiles found themselves wondering thoughts they had never before thought. An event had occurred; an event of deliverance, liberation, and freedom. One of their own had made a choice and turned it into an individual action with consequences and new experiences. Fate was now just a word to the tiles. The next night there was noise of vinyl scratching and glue squelching. In the morning there lay two tiles upon the floor.

An Ode To The Muse Amidst The Rest Of The World

I have missed you over the past months as I have found myself unable to act. My life has become full of many small things that keep me busy and you, the Muse, has been left on the wayside.
We are all moving about our lives in an attempt to survive and somehow find fulfillment. We move in various ways and observe our movements, subjectively hoping to find greater purpose and a sense of wellbeing. I am similar. I am hungry in the soul. Throughout my days I find many forms of beauty that inspire me to action, but then the weight of reality and the pending nature of my “to do” list impress their power upon me and render me inactive.
Where is the balance? How does one find the time to complete all tasks they set before themselves and yet still find time to ponder, be inspired, and create? My Muse is fettered by responsibility just as many of you reading this are now saying, “Hey, so is mine!”
Is has been said that we are products of our environment, and yet, we choose where we go, what we do, and most importantly, how we perceive it. I urge your focus to be on the last of these for it is this aspect that becomes the most important. How we perceive our existence determines our outlook and future actions. A positive outlook can make any half-empty glass become half-full.
“Oh great!” you say “Now this is just another twit preaching how to get up on the right side of the bed.” Absolutely not! That is the kind of ‘quick-fix’ crap that misleads people into assuming they are happy when, in fact, they are miserable. What I am trying to say is that if you are not capable of seeing your environment positively then you need to change that environment immediately. The world does not owe you anything, nor will it ever. You are the only person that owes you a thing, so pay up or get out.
We now come to why I am calling my Muse back to me. Each day I find small inspirations from the music on the radio to the savantic mutterings of my students. Inspiration is all around us, however, it is only available to those who are listening for it. I have recently realized that my Muse did not leave me, it is simply that at some point I chose to stop listening for it. Then, one day, I heard something in a song, then I saw a pattern in the rays of the sunrise, and then I paused a moment when thinking of a fond memory. My Muse is here; always has been and always will be. So, am I calling my muse back to me? No, I am calling myself to listen and asking that if you feel similar you will do the same.