A blog is like a snapchat in time, it appears, and within a short cycle is forgotten. It mimics the rhythm of our emotional life, the food one consumes, and the headlines. Unless Larry has said or done something memorable, I have no idea what I will be blogging about, until I open the page, and start writing. For many bloggers it is a space to process ones life, for others it is instructional, promotional, or documentarian. We are a story people, mere pages in the book of life, it’s what makes us viable. I’m a processor, sitting at my desk, trying to validate this one precious life. I just finished reading Dori Owen’s blog, she writes, “Is there a place for stable people? Some secret society like Mensa where you can be happy about it among members, but appear empathetic out in the world.” I laugh, but honestly, I’m only as stable as the guy in the express line at the grocery store, the one with more than fifteen items, and I realize I’m the only one counting? 

The story one holds onto is like an anchor, it grounds one in the current of life, but it is only a narrative. Sadly, when one loses the ability to empathize, ones conduit to humanity is broken. One is left estranged, enraged, and alone. This can be residue leftover from ones childhood, but for most of us it is learned behavior, and it has no definable boundaries. Every day one has to recommit to anger, shame, and fear, or conversely laughter, joy, and delight. These emotions disappear quickly if one simply allows them to pass. To keep these feelings alive, one has to invent a new narrative, and pass it around like communion. It is written, “blessed is she who comes in the name of Goodness (adapted),” because one is propagating virtue instead of vice. If it is a rather sordid tale that one carries, something heavy and dense, than one has to hang on with both hands. It becomes impossible to reach out to others because that would mean letting go of the story. One becomes stagnant, barren, swaddled in a blanket of lies. The laughter and joy of the people floating by only serves to enrage the one. One refuses to drop the narrative, because one is deathly afraid of the current, and where it might lead. All one can do is glare at the people one encounters, blame them for ones ideate trials, and ensuing tribulations. It is a human travesty to choose anger over delight. I wrote this to remind myself never buy into a story that takes both hands to grasp. Alas, if ones hands are not free, even a simple wave is impossible.