By Al Drinkle
As Earth continues its aloof encircling of the sun, it's increasingly difficult for the human passengers to keep up with the pace of life. The faultlessly frail are rendered physically or mentally broken by the world, and even the robust and boisterous amongst us—including those who suspiciously exhibit no confusion in regard to the stark irrationality of existence—seem to have to fight to find their place. Perhaps none of us really have a place anymore.
They say that you should live each day like it’s your last, but most of the last days that I've witnessed haven't been enviable. I know that's not what “they” mean, but to truly abide by such a dictum will likely result in a brief series of great days followed by seriously unsavoury and permanent consequences. Should we all be heading to Vegas to blow everything on an around-the-clock rager? Who would sleep during their last day on Earth?
As long as there have been humans there have been theories as to what awaits us after we die. These theories—often posited as unshakeable beliefs—have the utility of countering our fears and comforting us when we lose loved ones, yet there's actually very little that we should be less confident about. If our time in these fragile bags of bones is all that we get, it's certainly further encouragement to make the most of each day.
Despite this, many people actively prioritise the maniacal amassing of egregious wealth, impeding the harmless happiness of others, or staring at screens all day long. I suppose that when mental health is a luxury people will pursue odd pastimes. On the opposite end of the spectrum, others exempt themselves from the daily grind through the hedonic solace found in syringes or glass pipes. One extreme might be a response to the other, and maybe we're too quick to forget that there's beauty in between.
Everything seems so simple as I wander around my neighborhood in the evening with a tumbler of Riesling in hand. Inhaling the enchanting aromas of springtime blossoms helps the cacophony of compassionless psychos and unhinged politicians to recede. Another sip or two and I'm given occasion to properly miss recently departed loved ones, and to look forward to meaningful times with those who remain.
Just as I'm fumbling with the secret to preserve this peace inside myself, a way to permanently embody this tiny sense of transcendence, I'm startled by irate hollering. What the hell do you think you’re doing on my lawn?!? I shuffle back to the sidewalk, wondering why somebody would cultivate such resplendent lilacs in their yard only to verbally berate the maudlin strangers who stop to sniff them…
The search for clarity continues with a honeysuckle bush on the next block.
