Sometimes I wonder why I bother wondering. I am well aware of the pleasure it brings me to fabricate answers to the Great Plaguing Questions (like if gods had hair would they be dying it pink) and add some meaning to this mess.
But I know that I'm looking for meaning, and by the very nature of the problem am evading truth in searching for it.
And I know that there's no such thing as truth, only reasons and beliefs and Things That Make You Feel Better About What You Did.
Yet somehow I fall into the same trap again, not satisfied with the tomes of science that I swallowed growing up -- Tia tells me how smart I am every time I explain some bodily function to her --
-- she bases this judgement about my intelligence on the fact that I was once impressed enough by a book of anatomy to retain a few of the simpler things.
But she doesn't know that I don't understand any of the important things. I don't understand people and why they cling to the easy things, why they cling to this society, I don't understand Celine Dion fans or people who chose to follow the unlikely belief in a monotheistic god being what put this mess together in the first place.
I don't understand fashion and have given up on attaining any sort of look, I don't understand humans or relationships even though I've memorized every rule in the book...
I don't understand why everyone has given up on achievement and is settling for comfort as their primary goal -- if they're smart. Usually, they're settling for whatever the guy with the biggest house in the neighbourhood told them to settle for.
I don't understand why not everyone knows about Maslowe's pyramid. I don't understand why people watch Ally McBeal or find any interest in their shallow deliberations or how they can expect to be able to understand the nature of language if they only speak english -- or how they can possibly believe in a single manifestation of reality or how they can possibly be blind to the impossibility of the very idea...
I don't understand how some people can go through their days and weeks and years without ever reading a novel or comic or story of any kind, I don't understand how they think they've found happiness in an expensive bottle of Champagne.
That bottle of 1992 Dom Perignon? (not the one Ben brought with him, but the one I'd won) I gave it away to the first person who seemed genuinely impressed by it.
I don't understand why David thinks that booger is gross when he's raised two girls who both had projectile diarrhea at some stage of their infancy.
I don't understand why he still thanks me in the morning.
I don't understand why Daniel is becoming more and more petulant, more and more incapable of doing anything right with regards to anything linux related. I don't understand why he took my sober explanation of "why I asked him to help me with pr-side details rather than technical details because he is incapable of working with my technology..." and why he is not my manager but a peer that I share work that I have no time to do with -- he has taken it as a sleight to his ego and is behaving like a kindergarden student deprived of his lego blocks.
Except he has no idea how to use lego blocks, and was not hired to put them together, but to help me decide which colours to paint them.
I guess he took my "stop trying to act like you have any say in what I do and please just do your job" a little more personally than I thought a competent professional would.
I keep assuming people are competent.
I choose to continue to do so.
What I do understand is that when the energy waves are potent enough to carry me over that everpresent Highway of Synchronicity, none of those matter.
Only the little things that gleam with potential magic, the hysterical truths that Terry Pratchet points out about Heroes and Anti-Heroes in his latest book, the truths that explain that one less cup of coffee today will make the double-espresso that I'm drinking this afternoon all the more potent.
The little truths, the ones that don't ask me to judge anyone else, to second-guess motives, to scream murder or point fingers...
The little truths that allow me to ponder my existence and create beauty that might give others pause to dream (ENTP) rather than force the rules of my passage through time on everyone else and order them to act according to my cynical standards (ENTJ).
I lapsed into believing that Daniel was a bad person today, and I just remembered. It doesn't fucking matter. He's got reasons for what he does but right now those are safely on the other side of a locked office door and the coffee mug is on my side of the drywall.
I want to understand why sometimes everything hurts, without seeking to lay the blame on someone who can't even see past the fence choking his back yard.
I want to understand how people justify electing that Bush obscenity, I want to understand why I am running in circles again today when yesterday was so balanced.
I want more than happiness, but I wish I knew what other than a vague idea of a nobel prize dream...
I want to be a hero.
I want to believe that I can be.
So I am looking for the right truths...