I want to write something witty. Something charming. Something that will make my readers laugh. And yet I find myself thoroughly distracted. There is an old thought in my head that manages to prevent me from sleep. I'd like to blame all my insomnia on this particular instance so that I might have a reason for all my midnight ramblings. Then I would be able to find some brilliant coping strategy...some resolution...and I would return to the normal life of one who works and plays during the day and sleeps through the night.
I am afraid to read my emails on Facebook. It's true! I sent out an email the other day that, for me, was of the utmost importance and now I'm petrified of reading my emails. And I'm waiting on a phone call that will never come. I keep trying to explain this to people, but they insist that it is possible. All right. To maintain my facade of an indeterrable realist I will admit it is within the realm of possibility that a phone call might occur. However, it is only within the realm of slight probability. Why should one who has hidden themselves for so long suddenly step from the shadows? In a sense they are probably the only other person in the world more afraid of the ensuing conversation than myself.
But it is a conversation that needs to be had. Such has been the general consensus. Thus far its lack of "hadding" has merely served to leave plenty of loose strings for the kittens of rationale to play with. Now it's all become a tangled mess that will take at least two to unravel. Will the two ever meet long enough to pick away at the knots and tangles until some sense of the mess is made? It all reads like a bad dramatic serial comic strip and I prefer not to subscribe to the Sunday paper.
Imagine, if you will, a pair of bare feet, or perhaps feminine cowboy boots, propped up on a wooden railing. The owner is leaned back in a chair, waiting. The owner of the house returns from work, spies the owner of the feet...and the rest is a mystery that more than slightly resembles a tornado in a trailor park. I have this undying sense that it will not end well. Many enlightened individuals will admit that their karma has run over their dogma. I fear my problem is not the same. I fear my pragmatism has neglected my romanticism to the point that the bloom is off the rose. It now hangs its head in shame while its dried form provides a constant testament to its fate. Water, fertilizing and a good pruning should do the trick, but what would be the point?
Therein lies the crux of the matter. The point. Somehow we were all brainwashed into believing that there was a point to everything...a raison detre. Perhaps there is, but does that necessitate that we understand said point? I am realizing that it doesn't. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." What's more important? Hell or the intentions? Well, obviously the intentions since the accused couldn't possibly have intended to take up lodging in hell while paving the road with good intentions. That logic doesn't hold. We've all heard the cliche, "It's not the destination, it's the journey". If it's really the journey, then why are we all rushing so madly like rats in a maze? Admit it. We were conditioned to believe that the outcome is what is truly important. If you have even a small question in your mind that this may not be the case, merely watch NY commuter traffic for about 5 minutes. My point will be driven home provided the cabbie doesn't wreck.
Control. That is what it takes to sway the outcome in our favor. Those who gamble and are successful can explain to you the process of probability and the necessity of math to garner the desired consequence. Those who create plastic can describe in detail the necessary chemical manipulations and combinations required to achieve the obligatory results. We control. We strive. We regulate, grasp and beat a path to our especial stipulations. At the end of that path, we've been told, is the realization of our dreams...the culmination of our moments...the justification for our blood, sweat and tears. How sad and disappointing to come the the edge of the tall grass and find something else entirely: a corn field. Not only must we cut a swath through yet another indefinable obstacle, but now that which stands in the way has the ability to cut back with its razor sharp greens. And so the cabbie deposits us on the stoop of reality: we are not, in fact, in control.
And so we are frustrated. How else do you explain the tenacious profession of weatherman? He's wrong more than he's right and, oh, do we hate him for it! But he continues his employment because, deep down, we all sympathize with him in that he is attempting to predict that which he cannot control. If we cannot control something we must at least predict the outcome in order to obtain some ability to control our reaction to it. Do you see where I'm headed with this? There is no part of the human condition that allows us to just let go and accept whatever outcome may occur! Even choosing to refuse prediction is, in fact, an effort to control the current situation where a choice is being demanded of one who is disinclined toward the proffered scenario.
So how are we to cope with it all? The reeling, never ending positing of scenarios. The dark cave into which we retreat when the scenarios overcome us. The jubilation of achieving the desired result. The disenchantment of miscalculation. It's exhausting.
And it keeps you up at night.