Place me on the list of contentment once more, yet ready at a moment's notice to take flight, to sing the praises and sorrows of risk and reward. Let the cliches abound; let the trumpets blare, the choirs rejoice and the directors tacet; for once let a human be exalted, worshipped and praised; let humanity in its infinite frenetic stupidity be silenced and the individual abound; but also let me realize the limits of myself, the limits of my brothers, the limits of all limited things.
Let this be my hymn, O Lord. Let this be my prayer.
Was there a time in your childhood when fantasy and reality were not in binary opposition, when what you experienced was the same as what you imagined, when the universe traveling between your synapses was as real--or more so real--than the world in which you "really" lived? I remember that time. I remember not wanting to give it up. I remember crying when I realized that my life was not as exciting, beautiful and fulfilled as the existence I conjured through imagination. Would I be happier in that imaginary life? Or is happiness dependent on being able to experience grief, rejection, sorrow, pain? Or is happiness dependent on experiencing that binary opposition in the first place? If I have never known pain, how can I know pleasure? If have never known bad, how can I know good?