A Multi-passionate Magazine
Reflections on Quality
The heavy oak door slammed shut. Now your shirt’s collar undulates against your racing pulse. The echo of the door and the sound of your footsteps fade into the capacious hall’s high ceilings and barren walls. As you move slowly through the room, your eyes narrow at the sight of a mismatched mahogany desk and pine chair.
A triangular desk with smoothed, rounded edges sits in the center of the room. Beneath the triangle’s longest side waits a rugged but sturdy chair; its wood’s grain is visible, long, dark, thin parallel lines run the length of the seat.
Goosebumps dot your skin from shoulder to wrist, and your palms sweat as you approach the desk. Your legs buckle as you reach the chair, but it shifts to catch you preventing your fall.
Suddenly, three of the room’s barren walls transform into vertical gardens. From ceiling to floor, swaths of green are dotted by marigolds, lilac, and lavender. Floral notes fill the room, then a mist coats the side of your face. You turn your head in response to see a voluminous waterfall pouring into an endless pool. Your eyelids flutter, your muscles relax, and your head slowly drops to the desk.
When you wake, you notice the desk is now furnished with paper, inkwell, and quill. You stare at the page, your fingers curl to a fist, your eyes flare, and you lean back with a huff.
“This page is already full!” You shout, but your yell is drowned out by the thunderous waterfall.
You grab the quill, then dip it twice into the inkwell.
You shake You scribble Erratic, You scrawl You breathe You wait Continue, Then pause A dawning A light Words disappear, Margins increase … the page is clear
Your arm stops moving, the quill lifts off the page. Only a short, simple question remains:
Is Quality something we manifest, or something we excavate?