Adhering to the inescapable heritage of humanity, and in many ways powerless against the line of ancestors preceding, we have cycled over this ground countless times, criss crossed hither and yonder summing not too high to count, but rather lost the count too many times, in memories receding. Deja Vu abound we approach moments both heralded and unexpected with a sense of wonderment and at the same time with an undeniable feeling of the familiar, we love and hate in the same instance, polarised and paralysed, transfixed and untethered, empowered and humbled. It's not the moment you get your first bicycle, or the moment the training wheels are removed, nor the first time the steadying hand relents letting you glide alone, but rather the lack of a single moment when something cognitive and calculated submits to the intuitive and innate, when riding a bike is not about maintaining balance and the pedalling rate, but about the adventures you choose and the paths you may roam.
Moments pass, and at our discretion are moved to memory, short term fibs, long term quibbles, the dots connected, accepted or rejected, stretched or squeezed, polished or teased, take only what fits and the rest is neglected. Reason is simple, we're all but the same, it's all for the story, the creating and telling, the fame and the glory, who we are by the things that we do. Destinations aside, it's the journey we take. A novel's single random page may compel, though chances are it won't clue you in, not like reading it to the end all the way from the beginning. Shoe box full of pictures to a stranger is just that, a jumble of moments, formless and flat. Not that it matters, those moments are yours, divided from context, bereft of emotion, that which makes them spring to life, recalling comforting scents, heartwarming sounds, and making one pause.
Inadvertently we strive to impart our story, the restless memes toward an agreeable host. Animated and exuberant, or quiet and reserved, we intonate every word with care and patience, paying attention to the cadence, the ebbs and flows, the highs and the lows, pacing it just right. Too fast, and they're left behind, too slow, and they wander off in their mind. Just right, and they relish and savour every word, every image, every sound. To travel away they needn't ride a horse, a camel, or mule, they needn't catch bus, a cab, or a train, nor board a ship or get on a plane, with eyes closed they are transplanted away, from their world into another's, returning but wishing to stay, and like precocious little eight year olds with glee they say "Again! Tell it again!"
Greatness; inbred, sought, or imposed, in the end it's still that. The anchor point in the imagination of all hominids since. Ouroboros marked, one born of the other to birth the bearer anew, we need the stories of heroes, fables of their conquests, accounts of their trials, how they've met their ends, and how end made beginnings give us something to do. Our imaginations surge and our spirits soar, by the deeds of our predecessors we are emboldened to act, by the words brought forth from bold acts we are honoured to carry the flame. We will win where they failed, we will fail away from the prise, and our failings will be there to be won by those that carry on in our name. And we will sleep soundly, smiling with the secret of the brave few that imagined clearly, spoke freely, moulded and kneaded, stoked and kilned, and bore their dreams for the rest. For in those moments, that shaped that chapter, we were great.
Anachronism chased made many puffed chests. With so much gained so much was also lost, by hubris not seen, and by painting a new scene, none could see at what cost. Confidence so easily becomes complacence, turning and turning, brewing and churning, seeding greed and reaping foul, the sin, the crime, is all of ours. And where forests burned come trees anew, not quite the same, not the ones we knew. The leaves and trunks, branches and roots, the rustling sounds, and the twinkling lights, it all looks good but just doesn't feel right. Different animals have made here a home, flourishing and thriving, beautiful and inspiring, to think that once we sat upon that thrown.
