Helvetica Makes It Hell To Remember My Job Description

Once again I venture into the indescribable labyrinthian nature of my very own nature, trying to unfold and unfurl, maybe unravel some of the mystery hidden in the music box of life. Why a music box? Because it has been cranked beforehand, and when you hear the music play you see the dancer dance, but only depending on the number of cranks will the length of time the dancer dances be determined, yet no one ever knows, do they? The music is generic and can be repeated, yet it has distinct ups and downs, and some parts hinting at an ending, but proving fruitless just the same. It ends, instead, on a rapid, often unseen note, the dancer stopping the monotonous and continuous turning round itself, never fully achieving much of anything.

Now, if that music box we call our lives manages to inspire a little child into creating something beautiful, his fascination with the workings of this rather simplistic, yet delightfully complex piece of machinery leading to his becoming an engineer who creates a prosthetic replacement for veterans’ legs, all because he wanted to see the dancer get some extra motion in his little turn as a child and pondered on joints and such, will we have been successful? Will we have created something beautiful, or was it the will of the child, and the music box shunned and forgotten? Surely, when the child revisits the music box, sees it, and remembers its functions, he will remember the source of the inspiration, what led to his interest in the beginning, but the chaotic and everchanging environment he grew up in more or less conditioned him for that inspiration to be struck, for his inquisitive nature (or is it nurture) to be sufficiently aroused, the 8bit notes filling his curiosity’s cup until it has peaked. Thinking that that environment must be awarded, rewarded, and perhaps recreated is as illogical as a five dimensional object walking through time.

Why is it illogical, you ask? Time is a dimension, you say? Perhaps that is true, but a five dimensional being would nonetheless exist within certain boundaries. The conscious mind, so far as we know it and have come to define it, or at least I have in my little number of years of the following, is built on experiences. It is these experiences, these little samples of the real world which define our reality and are the fountain from which we take our cups of patterns and the foundation upon which we build assumptions (expecting things to happen as they have before). No matter if you do have a concept of time or no, and if you live in purely the present, the only way to build a functioning self-aware framework is through experiences, at least through the Darwinian process of life evolution and formation (whether or not that holds true in an R5 plane is for longer thought than a fleeting mind like mine is able to give; our R3 plane hold too many distractions to be permissive of this).

Yet, my mistake, I should have specified, “walks backwards through time”, for any of us can walk forwards, and can delay or speed up this even. The only problem is telling the me of 10 minutes ago to stop his thought of beginning to write this, as this has been a rather large waste of time for me and him.

So have I separated? Why does he seem a different person than the one right now? Would you say that you and the person you were at the age of 2 are the same? (much apologies to my one 2-year-old genius reader). No, you would not: you have been affected by the experiences of your life. I have been affected by the experience of writing this self-reflective piece, and now realize that my framework of thought has ever so slightly shifted, because, you know, Legos.

And so we are all Legos, building and building, yet collapsing at the (not-so-) slightest touch, easily breakable, easily brought into its base functions, needs, and desires, yet almost impossible to rebuild back to original form. All we can do is hope that the cranks last long enough for that inspiration to strike that child, and for us to wish on 11:11 that what we think isn’t true, but simple how we interpret all that bullshit sensory input based on our expectations.

Grunk.