Let the Books Burn - Winter Hill

"I don't do poetry you know. I don't mind reading it, but writing it is something else. I look at the ones I've written and I hate them. They all seem so fake. Like someone else wrote them in a different time." I look around me and take in the scene. Sand; seagulls; green water; everything is so calm. So why do I feel like a storm is raging inside of my mind?


"It doesn't matter." He's trying to help I know he is, but something about his words tug my thoughts into a new direction.
I push my toes into the sand an wiggle them around until all the sand has fallen off. "Of course it doesn't matter. Nothing matters."
"Come on, don't be so pessimistic." He walks a step ahead of me and picks up a shell. He examines it for a moment then throws it out into the water. We watch as the shell splashes down into the green foam. He turns back to me, "It's not so bad, you know. Maybe take some time off. You'll be better in a few weeks."
I stare at him. Doesn't he know what's going on? Doesn't he realize that my entire life is crumbling under my feet? All he does is throw sea shells and tell me to take a trip. Does he think that will work? "You don't understand. This is my life! It's not just a job or even just a career. Everything I do rides on this. All you want me to do is to take some time to 'get over it', as if that were an option. You think I haven't thought of that? You think I don't know what I should do? If it were that easy I would have done it!"
He stares back at me now. I shift my gaze to a seagull sitting on a pier. I cross my arms over my chest, wordlessly defending myself. "The poetry doesn't matter, none of that matters, but you matter. As an artist you bring people to places that they wouldn't have gone had they not experienced your work."
"That's the funny thing about people, they think they need someone to bring them places, but they are capable of going there on their own. They don't need me. I won't last anyway. People die, plastic melts, levees break, and books burn. It doesn't matter how much I give to them, they will eventually give it all away, they will lose my work, and I -- even though I have made a mark -- I will disappear. The human memories of my life will fade."
He puts a hand on my shoulder, "You can't think that way."
I push his hand away violently, "I can, and I do."
Our eyes lock once again. He's angry. I can't bring myself to care. The image of the sea shell flying through the air enters my mind. I don't know what that means. Does it mean anything? "You know what. You're right. It doesn't matter. You don't care, so why do I care?" He shakes his head. Obviously he is disgusted by his own words. He says again, "You're right. Let it all just go to hell. We will all be dead anyway. Let the books burn."