How do you know the measure of a man?
Do you slop all his guts and marrow on a scale? Watch it teeter between love and lust? Waiver between victim and villain? Does the value increase as the poise slides along the beam? Or does it decrease as he adds up like dead weight?
Does what’s inside outweigh the enormity of what he’s accomplished or regretted? What is the truest measure for his love and life? What scale is just and free of greed and self-benefit? What truth acts as the equilibrium?
Nothing of this world, I reckon. There is little true here to act as a plum line. Everything rigged to favor oneself. We all want to know what we’re made of, but only place one foot on the scale. We are afraid to know. Afraid to be found wanting. Horrified to think that we are not enough. Or, terrified that we are simply too much. But we aren’t sufficient, and we are superfluous, both. Not any one of us comes up even on that scale. Not a one of us will ever measure up.
Why use dirty scales and crooked lines then? Why deceive ourselves when what we really long for is devastating truth? What if taking a concentrated look inside is the first step in knowing your weight and worth?
How do you know the measure of a man?
SHE GILDS THE LILY: a lavish waste of words and wonder 