How can something so small, so irrelevant, matter? That question plagues us all and has done for centuries. Our answers never even approach truth, though, because we ask them defensively, as if we want to avoid hearing answers that would reveal who we are. And that is a shame, isn’t it? Wouldn’t the truth enable us to ferret out the ugly little viral strings that infect our thinking? Wouldn’t the truth open windows or, at the very least, wipe them clean to improve our view?
I just had a textual interchange with a friend. It could have become a more engaging conversation. But none of us are willing to open ourselves up to revealing the cracks in our fragile façades. None of us will freely admit to flaws so flagrantly and diametrically opposed to our social mores, yet so powerfully attractive and magnetic, yet genuinely fulsome. We humans are unwilling to explore the mistakes in our psyches. We avoid admitting the possibility that flaws course through our veins alongside our blood.
I felt an urge to document my thoughts; the question, of course, will be whether I can decode my message to myself in the days and months and years hence.
