I am not sure of many things. Some of them are obvious; others, not so much. The obvious I can tolerate, even fix, when the situation demands it. The others…well, let’s just say that unlike many others out there I am not in tune with the hidden meaning of things.

It has been a long summer.

I have written a thesis, finished and published a book, written curricula for three classes, and managed to survive the demands of a family of seven. To many, it is the happiness of a single moment which drives them to struggle against the tide of life that so overwhelmingly entraps and drowns some wanderers along its course to higher things. To me, it is many. There are many moments in life that can be considered success; many ends, in fact, that can drive that final crossing of the line. Here is one: when I write about anything, the very act of writing becomes a success. How many cannot write? I don’t mean those who are unable, but those who won’t. Anyone can write. Yet to write well requires a certain finesse of thought. A certain kind of pedantry. Words are aligned on a page and are required to fit into the mold piece by piece, step by step. One can never see what the final product is until the entire work has been completed. That is why writing is art. Like those articles and nouns bunched together followed by adverbs and verbs that permit the entry of conspicuous and inconspicuous direct and indirect objects. The comma, which allows for the interjection of another thought. The semicolon; that symbol which rudely interrupts the flow of a sentence to give succinct pause to an idea before it continues on the thread upon which it was set before. That conjunction, master of all breathing thought, which joins together and gives little room for pondering and even less for a response. I enjoy it, writing. There is no better way to pass the time than to revel in the empty white pages of an electronic document before it becomes filled with the pixels of thought, and black-colored letters. It is not the writing that made summer fester like an infected wound filled by unwanted parasites and pus. It was people. People whose voices were muddled by the unyielding course of ideas that gave birth to my writing. Voices yet heard and headed, but weak and languishing. Voices that despite their faintness held auctoritas over me. I think that my lack of heeding made the price higher, in respect of the happiness I was to have experienced.

One can never rely on another to gain the heavens.

Veritas indeed. No one will cross the threshold with you when you are about to win the race. Too busy. Successes cannot take place in company because the company will leave you, and you will leave it, when the end is near. In thought, for example, people always leave you when you are closest to the goal. There you stand, figuratively, at the gates of the temple of truth. There they leave you, as the door opens, and you fall. I wonder what it would be like to watch a fireman do the same, or a police officer. I wonder how one would feel when the fireman, about to reach the threshold of the house on fire, burning with complete determination to take with it the suffering being that occupied it and failed to recognize its demise, left the victim on the ground and with a tip of his hat and a smile on his face ran outside alone. We would be dumbfounded at the fact, although we would too soon have died and have little room to ruminate on the matter. Equally would the victim of a shooting be confounded if the policemen, having almost killed the assailant, turned to the victim and with a tone of newly-found success uttered that the rest could now be handled by the fallen person, dying in the poor misery of an inflicted gun shot wound. I suspect that, gun in hand, the dying devil fiend would finish the job all too promptly to allow a proper response.

We have become corrupted by self-sufficiency.

I depend on many to complete my day. Unsung heroes who are devoted to their craft as much, if not more, as I am to mine. There was once a janitor who smiled at me and gave me the courage to continue on with a day I thought wholly obliterated by disappointment and exhaustion. There was once a man who fed me at no charge when I was ready to pay for the delicious and meat-stocked sandwich I ordered at his deli. Having decided to be the best they could be at their particular professions had given them a sense of perspective beyond that of many others. They were educated in social relationships, they were committed to their accomplishment, but also to the accomplishments of others. They would not only get the person with whom they were connected only in passing to understand they were content with their choice, they would also have them know they too could be content with theirs. Those people carried me through the threshold and unto victory. Sapientia victa et semper erit.

It has been a long summer.

I may not be in tune with the hidden meaning of things, unlike many others. I can barely tolerate the obvious as it is. Yet, although I tend to fix the obvious I am not sure of many other things. I know, despite it all, that wisdom has conquered, and that it always will.