Worth a Thousand Words

Worth a Thousand Words

Imagine finally breaking through that egg shell of yours and digging yourself to the surface of an exotic beach. White sands glistening in the eastern morning sun, about a trillion miles away from wherever you are. This isn't home, but you're surrounded by a myriad of brothers and sisters. Fellow travelers, all filled with the same inherent desire to make it past the shore line. There seems nothing more important than reaching that foamy white surf, pulsating back and forth somewhere within earshot. You don't even know what water is, yet you're drawn to the ocean. As a matter of fact, it's a question of life and death. Or so it feels.

Admittedly, the last part was "inspired" by a famous David Foster Wallace speech. No eulogy, but one of those things meant to inspire graduates. That kind of farewell address intended to send you off. To war, to the workforce, or apparent insignificance. Ideally that final adios is being spiced with some encouragement from a role model. Someone like Wallace, the famous writer. Truth be told, I know diddly-squat about the man beyond being vaguely aware of 'Infinite Jest' and his eventual suicide. But I remember that commencement speech. This is water, he said. The audience smiled, some even laughed. I always assumed some fundamental misunderstanding of intent. Maybe he should've been screaming instead.

By all accounts David Foster Wallace had gotten his feet wet. It should've been so sweet, but ultimately it wasn't. Why? Who knows. I'm not going to psychoanalyze the guy. Yet, his death feeds into a growing suspicion of mine. About -this- being more than just -that- and the illusory nature of so-called matters of life and death. Especially in context of misconceived notions of success, or whatever falsehoods we keep striving for. Like some kind of interior decorator of the soul, looking to fill those gaps and spaces with IKEA coffee tables, or whatever the catalogue promises to make us whole. Like my own ongoing delusions of becoming a professional writer.

Here I am crawling towards the ocean. No rhyme, no reason. Just one of these wants, or supposed needs. Meanwhile "success" is about as likely as dunking balls on Shaquille O'Neal, or winning the lottery. It's worse actually. Even if you were to succeed, those cautionary tales of suicidal success stories indicate deeper frustrations to be experienced beyond that magical shore line. Like an Olympic Athlete up on thatpodium, wondering about the WHAT NOW. Or like that hopeless virgin finally getting laid and thinking to himself, so this is it? And thus a part you collapses. One you believed to be integral to your feeling of self. Whatever that might end up being.

Maybe the answer to, what is water, is the realization of what it isn't. How something and nothing keep implying eachother. Empty space. An all encompassing medium to be filled. Call it the void, nothingness. But -this- is water.