See, my phone died. Likely part of the whole scheme. Planned obsolescence and such. I’ve had the thing for three years. No updates. Memory space was running out. It was a recipe for self-destruction. Designed lovely to coincide with the new release of the pointlessly updated new version, made by nimble little fingers somewhere in a sweat shop in Asia.
I could have sworn I had something. Somewhere in the sleep deprived delirium, looking down upon the last scraps of humanity stumble, bumbling and fighting their way down Bourbon Street. It was something sad, but poetic. A long, drawn sigh… sounding almost sweet after being strangled out.
I felt I wanted to say something, but what it might have been has since slipped away.
But what a thing it is!
They never mention actually reaching happiness, at least not with grand admiration. The pursuit, however, is quite the big deal. Right up there with being alive and free. To attempt to find contentment. Your own dreamt up happiness, specific or vague it may be. It is yours.
To be, powerless.
One of the greatest fears that can be held. And perhaps it is only me, but damn, can it be felt often.
As real as anything else that could be called real. Otherwise the bother would not be had to talk about it.
For as far as I can believe, all sorts of nouns have made impact upon me. Personal, historical, communal and oh, so many more. People I have met, or even those I have only read about. There are things that experience has granted, in one way or another, that have sculpted the identity I call home.
It is a funny thing. How the only thing that matters, doesn’t matter. Or better, its place among priorities is subjective.
Ultimately. At least to us humans. It is all the stories we tell. Not authored ourselves. You are the only soul that ever gets to read the full autobiography. The matter seems to come in the stories that are told of us. About some soul. Infamous or the other type. It doesn’t have to be a good thing in order to matter. It just needs to echo.
And yet, conversely, those who don’t know and yet create the illusion that they do are often and easily marked as liars. Some more vicious than others. Fabricating an entire existence without regard for what the reality may be. Yet even if such a monster were able to convince others indefinitely, the truth be known to he who hides it.
Fret not, though. My mind both waking and otherwise, has been heavy at work to check that which history has proven to produce the very events that have crafted the sharp cynicism that has made my word-working what it is. The duality is still in play, but in order to balance the one-sided portrayal of summer days, we must dive elsewhere.
And what a lovely, rainy Sunday to do so.
There is one of these every week, after all.
Which might as well bring us to the focus of today’s ramble.
All this talk of human might… and yet at the clock’s mercy we all remain. I can hide it or dress it up any way I’d like. As can you. But the ‘tick-tock’ of inevitability can be deafening. Something we all were supposed to learn from Captain Hook, yet never quite did.
So, despite what the title may say, Sunday morning was a good while ago now. But Wednesday Afternoon Musings just does not have the same ring to it.