How do you know?

How do you know?


How do you know if you've just written a Michael-Angelo or Van Gogh? How do you know if you've just completed the verbal version of the Sistine Chapel?

How do you know?

Is your apron or smock littered and smudged with jotted brainstorms that the adept putty knife of your fevered scrutiny couldn't manipulate?

How do you know, I ask?

Is your artistic palette for writing spattered and smeared with hybrid expressions, mixed by a frenzied determination to get the right illustration?

How do you know?

Are there grammatical chips and shavings crowded about your monitor's desktop where you've sculpted with a prudent chisel, the perfect anatomical replica of a Simile's bust?

I only ask, how do you know?

Is your discourse upon a mantle; where you've stood back to behold the grain of your transition within the polished marbling of your contextual statue, as it poses in inquiry?

How will you know?

Is the college ruled canvass beset with margins, confining your wildest imaginations and is it filled with metaphors that give abstract illusions of greater depth and dimension to observers who progress through the exhibition?

HOW DO YOU KNOW?

Do the hours, days and nights of attention to detail flow into a flawless spectacle that beckons multiple tourists to leave bookmarks in your gallery?

How do you know, I humbly ask?

Is it during the grand unveiling when society cries, 'Yay!' or when under condemning breath they whisper, 'Nay'.

How do you know if you have just rivaled King David, Shakespeare, Langston Hughes, Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou, Pablo Neruda and Edgar Allen Poe?

I beg and I plead, not that I'LL know, but, how do you know?


By Vaughn Antar