I move like a phantom – sifting tools between my hands and shuffling footsteps like I’m trying to find a lost love one through a crowded plaza. A force propels us forward, unspoken, much to our chagrin, but a force nonetheless that has an appetite for resolution and arbitration. Like a needle poking through layers of comfortable blanket, this force penetrates our lives and pinpricks us right at our most aggravated point of stimulation.
It makes you think about how much you love life, which leads you to think of death.
Death – does one just casually slip into the stream of the forever? Simply to be reconstituted as another familiarity? And what of the inbetween? Or, so to speak, the road that we all walk? Does it simply get lost, like tears in the rain? Or does it simply get misconstrued?
Take, for instance, an impromptu actor on an impromptu stage, at an impromptu time. Does the actor not first say, “wait?” while he recollects his bearings and coagulates his wit? Once he is situated, does he not look back at his prior confusion in oversimplification? Like an improv actor, moving with the actors, forgetting the settings, far and many inbetween, do we move through life?
I don’t know. That’s the question.
For in life, hard work looks like hard work until hard work turns into relaxation and awe. Relaxation because we finally gave ourselves a break, awe, because we finally showed the world what we were capable of and it reciprocated – and we were ready to receive it.
But the world is palpable, relative, tangible. Like a ball of clay rolling down a long, endless hill, it continues. Once some bold, unforgiving visionary comes along and takes that clay and molds it and says this is this, this will forever be this, and that is that then the ball of clay has shifted and changed. But not too long from then, over time, long after that visionary is gone, that ball will continue rolling down that long hill, smoothing itself out and waiting for the next visionary across the endless sea of time.
And yet, do we speak to each other through the open window, across the music to one another to relay these things, like a ghost whispering to an unborn child. To the next generation? Or do we simply believe was has passed-has passed, and that is that?
No. I believe in another world. A world where one can transcend time as easily they transcends space. One that connects people from across generations as easily as one can connects dots on a map. As I look into the distance trying to answer my own question I am taken away. Not by a scene, or the view, but the music that is the ambient orchestra of our live. For a minute, it took me away to another time and place where my dreams felt like a lifetime.