When younger than adolescent I could remain musing well into the night. An invented reverie spun with my favorite record over and over. "Peter and the Wolf" crackled neath the needle of my Fischer Price turn table while the narrator educated the listener on each instrument's associated character. I would nervously anticipate the "Da na na na na na Na Na Na na NA", as the french horns introduced the Wolf. The black and white Zenith given to me by my grandmother refracted the imagined flit of candle light. Having no sound, the half contrasted Taxi re-runs provided fuel for thought. The Mood set, I urged forth deliberating with the school day behind me and the day ahead.
So young then, I was unwise to the causes and conditions of human suffering. The ability of other children to spend their waking hours bullying, torturing, and otherwise humiliating their peers always baffled me. The school belonged to the Wolves. In my head, they always came panting through the halls with French horns half blaring as they approached. I wondered if an anti-villain such as Peter existed. Would he play his strings in march toward victory over the wolves of the world? I prayed he would be someone I knew.
To describe me as an empathetic child would probably understate the obvious. All of these mental meanderings I felt with intensity. I invested heavily in my conclusions. To this day, I look in reverse to the million moments spent interlarding imagination with my daily reality. I have wondered at times who the villains really were. How many false attributes have I preordained to people in general? In life's iliadic I have searched and researched for this reconciliation to no avail. For a sense of sustaining happiness it seems the only answer is to veer far from the finality of human failings. Beauty seems to rest along the dirty fringes of the imperfection of living. In its profile lay the shadowed textures worth touching. In the grand scheme of things perhaps it's the questions we ask that matter most.
No comments:
Post a Comment