Sun — light T/hrough the Windowpain
What does that word mean to people?
When the definition is so readily available it becomes second-nature to know. But, to FEEL the weight of sacrifice is to truly know the definition of the word.
Words are bound to experience.
Sacrifice is bound to the butterfly effect. Every moment you’re alive is a moment to ponder your choices. Each choice a door. Each choice an unknowing lifetime, sacrificed.
It’s amazing to me that us humans manipulate this effect the way we do. We control our experiences as best we can. Ignoring the resounding uncertainty of each supposedly astute decision we make. Everything is so mundane in the experience I’ve configured for myself, thus far. How much sacrifice have I already had to deal with? How many grand opportunities lost at the forge? How many people have I been responsible for ending?
As for the latter question, I predict that 100 years from now, we’ll be able to know.
Imagine a world in which drones were constantly overhead. Drones with cameras, tinier than a pin-needle. Imagine forensic investigators splicing together footage from multiple drone video footage to catch the person who caused a deadly accident. To take it a step further, consider The Minority Report.
What if malicious intent was never more popular a motive than distraction?
If, in your head, you can fabricate a scenario that could exist, it has probably already unknowingly happened.
Drop a banana peel on the ground and someone may step on it and break their neck.
Is that murder?
If you decide it isn’t, maybe another decides it is.
But I digress…
Mostly, I wanted to spew out something about sacrifice and what it means to the ignorant.
What it means to the child.
What it means to the old human.
Do you remember learning about death as a child?
Do you remember when it finally sunk in?
Did it ever for you?
I remember when it sunk in for me, but I’ll keep that story for myself.
I don’t remember when I stopped caring, though. For a long while I was extremely existentially angsty. I thought day and night about how little any of our existence mattered.
I read yesterday that you finally become an adult when you start thinking about the future. That’s kinda true when you think about it, but isn’t it also a bit ridiculous? If being an adult is fretting about the past and the future, then I’d like to opt out of this transgression and remain a child forever, because you can’t change the past and you can’t control the future.
Some people, when they walk through a door, the door locks behind them. That’s the way it is for most children becoming adults.
That’s a tragedy in and of itself, but the real sacrifice comes from those who don’t try and open the door again.
You see, I always came running back to my door. When the future looks too bleak or when I’m too lost in the absence of the past.
It never did unlock itself for me, so I built a room around it. I portioned out the space I needed to console myself in a realm of imagination and I painted moon rainbows and space cadets on the walls of the foyer to adulthood.
I try not to forget that it’s all about perspective, though.
Perspective inspires. That’s the real way of it. Children inspire. Old people inspire.
I think about my Grandma often:
My Grandma is a determinate lady who works harder than anyone I know. She also almost got us busted up at the B & I the other day after buying me some socks from the Gangsta Outfitter. She is parked perpendicular to oncoming traffic in the parking lot and asks me if she should scare this Mexican guy driving up and I of course repeated my go-to, “Grandma no! What the fuck? Noooo”. So she rams onto the gas and nearly t-bones this guy before slamming on her breaks and laughing her ass off. She drives a PT cruiser for context (as if you didn’t already assume). She then proceeds to follow the guy and pull up to him at the next stop light and roll down her window and jape with him. That’s just a miniscule sliver of her idgafness. She once threatened to drive her truck off a cliff with me in it unless I allowed her to buy me a new pair of shoes from Ross.
I love my Grandma :)
I think there comes a point when you just get too old to care anymore. Everyone you love is dying and you’re dying. The things that hold weight in this world pale in comparison to everlasting nothingness and if that’s where you think we’re all headed, then it’s easier to feign a senile smile and have a genuine, good time.
Old people are the return to youth. When you get old, you stop worrying about the future as much, the past dissipates languidly into the soft recesses of your failing grey matter and the door unlocks.
This can happen at any stage of your life. So, don’t stop checking. It fills me with determination. Live each moment presently and subsist within a realm of imagination and wonder.
Do more of what makes you happy.