Metaphor

One of my gravest weaknesses as a writer is my lack of metaphor. In one book I read, one of the characters says something to the effect of, "Finding the right metaphor is like... is like..." In context, he was discussing love, or women, or something equally gnostic, but occasionally I get stuck within a zone of metaphoric void. The sun washing over the hills towards sunset while the celestial bodies speckle into existence is like... is like... beautiful? You would have to see it. The ocean lapping against the beach beneath a sea of stars, a gentle breeze against your back as the sea cools and the sand still radiates warmth is like... is like...why weren't you just there? The majestic peak, a pristine white gleaming above the ringlet of clouds as I stare from it's mighty pinnacle, the valley stretched beneath is like... like... well? Edenic? It isn't like you were there, either. How can I explain something in a simple comparison that illustrates something primal, meta-natural. Frequently, these times are just images stamped onto my retina, a mere beach or mountain or valley. But just as frequently, they strike a spiritual chord, and transcend the physical realm. As I glance across these things, I see why God called them good on that first creative run. They are good.

And it isn't just any old sunset I see, showing hillsides in honey and sparking the trees awash in wildfire scarlet-orange. I'm not staring at mundane-beach under everyday-stars with wimpy waves lapping at a soggy shore. Standing atop this mountain, staring across the world stretched beneath my shoddy sambas, a valley indeed edenic, filled with snaking rivers, sand and soil and evergreens, the fall trees decidedly deciduous and marking a fiery swath across forests green. Tiny toy cars dot distant highways and distant structures are the stuff of ants, this is olympus, this is asgard, and huginn and muninn join me in this temperate paradise atop a solitary summit.

Does metaphor suffice? These are moments where the entirety of my experience is swept out from beneath me, and words are whispering hymns of praise to an almighty maker, not petty descriptions that litter the ocean floor, the valley crags, the depths of a cave in time of sunset. But then, these may be just excuses. Because metaphor is not my forte, and finding the right metaphor is like... is like...