There are times in my life, many, in fact, when snippets of philosophy, quotes, or ideas enter my mind and take up residence there until I decide to address them, push them out through mental exertion, or eventually archive them far away from consciousness. Now, most of the time, when I manage to forget something, it is not really gone, it simply hides until it chooses to enter, re-energized and additionally charged, into my conscious mind. This is one of those thoughts, and what I had to do in order to answer the question it proposed.
The phrase used as a title for this post, from the movie Red Tails (2012) presented itself time and time again, I would ponder it for a few minutes, perhaps some half hour and, finding no answer, I would simply put it out of my mind as unsolvable. The film (there is two of them, if you were wondering) is about a group of African American pilots who fight discrimination in WWII and are part of the 332nd flight squadron. The pilots, who excelled in all things related to aviation, and even beyond the scope of flight and military affairs, are constantly fighting against the tide of dehumanization, lack of trust, and plain discrimination white officers put them through. Of course, like in any good movie, the answer to the question is not given; the only answer is “raise your head son, you are a fighter pilot.”
Over and over I deconstructed and reconstructed the phrase in my mind, it became so ponderous I had to address it. Then, as I went about my usual day, one after the other, phrases and time would go by, and like an insistent child redoubling its efforts, it reasserted itself. The question needed to be answered, it was meant to be answered. It refused to give up, it made itself a force, less and less carefully, more and more aggressively. I will not lie, I think of myself pretty highly; through life, I have learned many things, done just as many, lived as many lives as one can live. Lately however, I have been struggling with the thought that it is all for naught; that how well educated I am or how high I climb in the corporate or social ladder, in the end I would die, and those who called me friend would not remember any details about me, my understanding, whatever wealth of knowledge I claimed to have, or whatever. As much as I was talking about myself every day, those people I was speaking to seemed to hear almost nothing, always choosing to remain who they were, unwilling to partake in the bounty I thought to be sharing while I spoke – what pillar it was, my supposed wisdom. I was frustrated, annoyed; getting tired of the world and its incomprehension. Have you ever wondered why we live in a world in which everyone claims to love history and yet no one can tell you anything about it? I have. I hate the question. I would never think of saying “I love spaghetti” and when asked ‘why’ replying “I don’t know, I just do.”
At any rate, the question, that pesky little question, remained. It was challenging me to think of it more and more, seeking an answer to the ponderous conundrum, a resolution to a problem long overdue. As I questioned my purpose in life, in the world, I found nothing that would direct me to an answer. I have read things all my life, books, pamphlets, ads, or chats, and found pieces of wisdom and understanding that have led me to craft a viewpoint in life I believe very few other people have. Yes; I am aware of the fact that there are six billion people, almost seven, in this world; furthermore, I am aware that philosophy leads many to the same conclusions. I am just saying that I see things, well, differently; many say I am contradictory, others, that I over-analyze, some, that I am too prideful. In reality, at least in my reality, facts are logical pixels which, put together, create a picture of certain quality. I like facts, I like pixels, and I like to think that the way I put those little bits of information together create a picture in HD because of the accumulation of information in very tight quarters. High pixel condensation grants a type of vision, a vision that allows for a particular kind of analysis. Things are clearer, more vivid, when high concentration of pixel-information is present.
I deconstructed the phrase again; when it manifested that last time. I was curious what would come of it.