A Quick Breather

The floating imagination of the child gives way too soon, too quickly. In a flash we’re speeding towards youth then adolescence then a-dolt-hood. We’re on to the larger, bigger issues and responsibilities and the smaller, faster computer to hold them all, the slick-talking phone to remind us of them, the status-symbol car to take us to them in roundabout circles chasing our tails. Bigger responsibilities. Faster. Louder. We’re fragmenting and splitting into a hundred points of contact, two hundred, a thousand. It’s not enough and we want more. Always more. The noise of what we should have or need. The noise of what it takes to get it. The cloying crackles of static brewing in the background and gaining prevalence, jarring us to action. Nothing is good enough, quick enough. There must be, always, something else to want, to buy, to sell, to own, to use. Because if there’s not then we’re not trying hard enough. And soon we’re older and no wiser and there’s been no fun, or fun so plagued with the preoccupation what comes next that everything has slipped away. We tried to hold too much and lost it all. Gone. In. A. Flash. Like electric current running away through the wires, spitting in a million directions instantaneously – never stopping – and we’ve got no breath because we’ve been running too far, too fast, and we’re panting, gasping short on life. We need to breathe deeply. We need to unplug. We need to stop splitting our attention and take a break, break bread, break the routine, break out, break away.