Someday, sooner than I would like, I am going to be a grandfather, complete with that unsettling ring of mortality that follows the birth of a grandchild. And I will be in the position of relegated authority of telling stories, of yesterdays without context to a blood only a quarter mine. I will have to try and incapsulate experience and in that truth. The truth of a world so different from what will exist 10, 20, 30 years hence.
These are the things I think about in the night. How to capture these staggered lonely moments and the events that twist around me like toxic lunar bodies.
How to explain them. To yield context where only experience would do…
Perhaps you can’t. Perhaps that is the glory of senility. You refuse that part of history. You simply are. A lone figure casting your own shadow in the waves of micro history.
Maybe that’s right. I doubt it… But maybe.