Saturday
.
3/3/05
Waiting For Kierkegaard
Having fallen behind and been forgotten, it now lies on the floor of my car just between the center console and the driver's seat. But why is it there? What secrets does it jealously guard as though it were a lingering ghost from the past?
When looking at it, the adjective 'forlorn' comes to mind… but is it really? Is it as sad and mysterious as it might first appear? As sad and mysterious as a phone number hastily scribbled on a matchbook that lies forgotten amongst last night's ashtrays and empty gin bottles?
Or has it been purposely cast away as would the last letter from a faded love? Certainly if that were the case another glance would be too painful to bear; indeed it might secretly harbor the hopes and dreams of first love and, yes, the memories of first betrayal.
Perhaps it lies there in it's final resting place on the floor of the car as a cruel reminder of the capricious indifference of fate; an existential riddle that mocks us as we begin to understand that there may be no definitive reason for it being there at all.
Ultimately there can be no real explanation for it's raison d'etre, if only because we are limited to viewing it's existence through the context of our own limited experience. So then, in the end I know that I have long since been predestined to resolve the entire affair in the only way I know how: I grab a napkin and wrinkle up my nose.
"Yuck," I say to myself, "So that's where the hunk of egg sandwich I dropped last week went. Ewww."
I wonder if I should mention this discovery to my wife. No, probably not.
-
|
3/3/05
Waiting For Kierkegaard
Having fallen behind and been forgotten, it now lies on the floor of my car just between the center console and the driver's seat. But why is it there? What secrets does it jealously guard as though it were a lingering ghost from the past?
When looking at it, the adjective 'forlorn' comes to mind… but is it really? Is it as sad and mysterious as it might first appear? As sad and mysterious as a phone number hastily scribbled on a matchbook that lies forgotten amongst last night's ashtrays and empty gin bottles?
Or has it been purposely cast away as would the last letter from a faded love? Certainly if that were the case another glance would be too painful to bear; indeed it might secretly harbor the hopes and dreams of first love and, yes, the memories of first betrayal.
Perhaps it lies there in it's final resting place on the floor of the car as a cruel reminder of the capricious indifference of fate; an existential riddle that mocks us as we begin to understand that there may be no definitive reason for it being there at all.
Ultimately there can be no real explanation for it's raison d'etre, if only because we are limited to viewing it's existence through the context of our own limited experience. So then, in the end I know that I have long since been predestined to resolve the entire affair in the only way I know how: I grab a napkin and wrinkle up my nose.
"Yuck," I say to myself, "So that's where the hunk of egg sandwich I dropped last week went. Ewww."
I wonder if I should mention this discovery to my wife. No, probably not.
-
