It can't possibly be true. I mean, there are so many variables to consider when assessing an event or an awareness of information that one had not previously been privy to.
It's like people who tell me they don't remember their dreams (my mom used to claim this affliction). I just think we all have the capabilities to become extremely selective of what we admit to ourselves. If we just say, "I never remember any of my dreams," then it's a moot point to try and remember one if, in fact, we had one that might be an indication of a manifestation of our conscious self in our subconscious arena.
It's an easy out.
Well, as far as surprises go, I love 'em ... always have. And today I got one handed to me in an unusual form. It was what I guess you'd call an easement of access.
I took a street which must have been under construction for the last three years. Not a huge deal, but enough so that traveling on it had more cons than a thruway should. Well, today when I took it I had quite a nice surprise: the construction was complete. It was clean. It was highly functional. It was sensible.
It was as it should be.
But it took me a few hundred feet of driving on it to notice what was different. There was a distinct lack of orange. There were no flashing lights. And, despite the snow (which adds its own brand of seasonal coagulation), it was a breeze to traverse. It made me smile, but that happens a lot these days.
I wonder how many people drove down that street today and didn't even notice a thing? They just went about their business and were too occupied to detect that something was different from the last three hundred times they drove over and through the municipal thruway.
But I noticed.
I noticed because it's what I do to keep my proverbial shit together. I acknowledge that there is a difference in the world I live in (both the tangible as well as the ethereal) so as to have a point of reference to judge how the numbers look. And when I say "the numbers" this really just refers to an overall grade I can apply at unspecified and random times to the momentous task of living my life that I was granted some almost thirty nine years ago. The numbers have been looking pretty good as of late. I have a bunch of tasks that still need work (ie: tackle the pounds I put on over the last couple of months, and write some goddamn music) but all in all my GPA is looking above average for a guy like me, who used to be much different in so many ways.
My focus has shifted a bit. I'm not so hung up on the recovery portion of my life. But, then again, I feel that that should be something that becomes as effortless as breathing consistently throughout a nightmare. I don't think it should be a task or a chore--something which is the antithesis of a life of vice. Instead, I feel that it should be something that I only notice when I see traces of what things used to be like--a photo posted on the web from another place in time, or a recording of a less than stellar performance.
It should be like wondering why I arrived somewhere a few minutes before I thought I would, and then realizing it's because the construction on that particular street is done with.
And, in saying that, I understand that I hasn't really ended, it just moved on to another road that needs attention.
Because until the cars stop driving on it it'll only be a matter of time before the orange cones come back and the work begins again.
Thanks for reading.