The Paradox of Cup

As part of Stories and other things I am ashamed of. 

     I like the feeling of a warm cup in my hands. It makes me feel superior in a sense; like I’m about to write something particularly clever. But as soon as I set it down, it’s gone. My masterpiece, if it’s here, takes focus, or two hands, or something like guided direction. And then I think to myself, "What can I create that hasn’t been created already?" I’m unique, or at least my voice is. Anything I write, even this very passage, is Russian-American literature. I can create the future, mend busted walls, heal a nation of people, if only myself. 

                                          And then I am left only with this:
                                     

                                                                                                 8/26/10