I’ve always been more than a little obsessed with the passing of time, it’s effect on people, the future, how we deal with the unknowns. All of these things to me are intricate pieces of the fabric of life. When I see people, anyone really, I wonder about their lives, why they cut their hair that same way, why they are walking instead of driving, why they have to take the bus, how they can keep a calm demeanor when their kid is being a royal pain in the ass. This isn’t new to me, meaning, I haven’t just gotten more curious as I got older. I guess you could say being curious has always been my essential nature. When I was young I looked at people and pictured them all having sex, they would squirm and squeal or whatever it is grown folks did when they had sex. This was all in my head where, as I would come to find out, all my best stories and crazy ideas would be wrestling for freedom the rest of my life. I don’t think people take enough time to wonder about things, or maybe I spend too much time wondering. I have to say that I’m not sure about that. All I know is that I could probably make a good argument for both sides and might randomly switch from time to time. I often hear that taking time to reflect is good. I guess for some that means reflecting on your self, your life etc. and I do that, definitely. I’m forced, you could say, to continually improve myself so that I’m bearable or less of a pain in the ass. Who knows. But, I know I like to reflect on what I see around me as well. Maybe it impacts me directly, maybe indirectly. Who knows.
All I know is that I think about the world around me a lot. I think about it and I wonder and I worry, a lot. Sometimes it’s silly shit about someone’s dated hair cut or whether someone looks at the world the way I do. I think things have changed so much since I was young. I wonder how a 70 year old person must feel about that. I imagine that at 70 you just accept change is coming and you are either going to ride the crest or not give a damn. I spend so much time reflecting I am almost not present. I can think about the future and be depressed. I can think about the future and be excited. I think about the present day, and feel indifferent. Sometimes I lose hope in future generations. Maybe I’m still foggy and think that my generation had it’s shit together, and we were probably the last of the shit together people. When I think about what I might want to write about, it’s partly fiction. But some stuff, you just can’t make up. It’s all around you, stories, snapshots, vignette’s, like strings ready to be woven. Or you could ball it up and throw it away. Whatever. Truthfully, I’m a web of little tangents. Maybe it’s dangerous to try to make sense of it. But I don’t have it in me to stare down at the ground with my nose to grindstone and push forward, blindly.