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All of us steal our lives. A little here, a little there. Some of it given, most of it taken. We wear ourselves like a coat of many patches, fraying at
the edges, in constant repair. While we shore up one belief, we let go another. We are the stories we tell to ourselves. Nothing more.
War is often described as long periods of boredom, punctuated by moments of terror. A description that is functionally identical to many people’s lives.
The black and white of truth blurred into grey under the relentless assault of an infinity of context, interpretation, perspectives, and opinion.
stumble into the understanding that nothing matters. There’s a cold shock of realization and, in that moment, we know that nothing at all is of the least consequence. Ultimately, we’re all just spinning our wheels, seeking to avoid pain until the clock winds down and our time is spent.
Against young skin it carries a dull edge, but time will teach you that nostalgia cuts – and that it’s a blade we cannot keep from applying to our own flesh.’
Take an item of even moderate value and wrap about it some fraction of an ounce of festival paper – the scales will hardly flutter. Set the word ‘gift’ upon it, and the person who receives it may stagger beneath the added burden.
