Sterile

Sterile in the fields of correctness and clarity, I've flattened out the subjectivities and the ambiguities, convinced that vacuity was the way to truth. I broke the vases, threw the paintings away, scraped the wallpaper clean off. gave the furniture away, cracked the walls, pulverized the blocks, flattened the terrain, and removed substance out of whatever remained, and inferred, kept, a wireframe model of what could be a home, but no home at all. I have possibilities, ideas, models, concepts, designs, and solid, perfect implications, but barely any implementation. A couple of axioms, a postulate at most, but no more. Why bother with a thing when you have its concept? Why construct a building when you have its blueprint? What is its merit? Following instructions, instantiating a cooking recipe, has no value in the land of the abstract. But to my later dismay, the abstract does not encompass the human mind, much less the human experience, and often I am urged with the need of something that my barren world cannot represent.