Fresh ideas are rare. Brilliant ideas are rarer still. Yet the search for that one spectacular idea never slows; never pauses. Belief in the brain’s ability to perform magic never stalls. That same irrational confidence gives us horoscopes and reliance on diet pills. Will we never come to grips with immutable reality? I think not. But what would life be like if we were unable to place our faith in the impossible? We are not as smart as we think we are. At least I am not. That depressing truth is how days start dull and lose even more of their minuscule sharpness with each passing minute.
If I had a loaded shotgun. I would dispatch a maddeningly noisy refrigerator with a single well-placed shot. But then something equally annoying…or worse…would tahe its place. Better to meditate into serenity. Or medicate into obliviousness; the point at which noisy refrigerators do not intrude upon one’s quietude.
Chill. That is my admonition to myself. Look in the mirror. See me watching you. I see you across time and distance. Feel my embrace. Reach out and touch my arm. Look upward, toward the invisible planets and stars. You cannot see them, but you know they are there. It’s the same with me. I am here, but unless you look into that magical mirror, you cannot see me. Life is strange. It is stranger, still, when you realize it is not real; just an idea that seems real, thanks to that mirror’s magical image.
I am hungry. How does a hologram experience hunger? The same way he might experience starvation, if I let the sensation go on for a week or a month. But I refuse to do without water. That would be madness, multiplied by an exponent of itself. And so, now. I will go dancing through the day, my image in your mirror and your image in mine. We are two children, one hundred years shy of adulthood. I have seen too many adults. They look sour and twisted, as if they had eaten lemons and lye. Keep your mind focused on apple fritters and cantaloupe; the lye will transform into Splenda, leaving lemon-flavored melons and apple fritters with a slight edge.
Completion. I am enamored with Yellow Springs, Ohio. Perhaps I should find a house there…to buy or to lease. A place to which I could retreat from brutal southern summers. But the mosquitoes could ruin the nirvana. Is there no place that is absolutely perfect? I am afraid not. Perpetual joy is an illusion of immense proportions. But getting it in little sips may be enough.