The boy with his toy car
The boy with his car
I sat on a stone wall in Zambia and watched a young black boy in a torn blue shirt- the kind of blue that is a shadow of its former vibrant self, depleted by the sun's merciless hand; and a pair of shorts, its color obscured by dirt and time. He pushed a small metal toy car over the dirt and stone strewn ground, his bare feet slapping softly like a bird's wings against the sky. There was a metal rod that he held that connected stiffly to the roof of the tin car, so when he ran holding it out in front of himself, the car speed off, like two souls in an endless and pathetic pursuit.
But the boy seemed oblivious to the world around him, content in the simplicity of this entertainment. And sitting there, watching him absorbed in his own small world, made me for a split second wish for life to once more be so simple to get lost in. The more we are exposed to, the more we're disappointed. What was once an adventure- a bus ride, a plane flight, going to the grocery store with mom- now becomes a nescience. That's what keeps us always searching, always yearning. Nothing good lasts forever- something we've all heard. But that day, while watching the boy with his car, i realized that its not always the good thing that changes, but rather ourselves.
To me, the idea of heaven, is hell. To live each day in the same state, in the same lazy, clouded perfection, seems no better than being burnt alive. Words like always and forever, make my stomach churn, make my skin crawl. What's life without the hope of change? What's the purpose of living if there is nothing to look forward to?
Something horrible is made bearable with the thought that time will take it away. Something wonderful is made precious with the understanding that it will not last.
But yet each day, we live our lives allowing monotony to creep in and destroy all that we ever hoped for. I swear to you, take a miserable man- its not poverty that makes his misery, nor wealth. its not the booze or the bad wife. its not the 9 to 5 job or the arthritis. its the sameness. its that no matter what state he is in, its in a state of constancy. and that... is misery.
I sat on a stone wall in Zambia and watched a young black boy in a torn blue shirt- the kind of blue that is a shadow of its former vibrant self, depleted by the sun's merciless hand; and a pair of shorts, its color obscured by dirt and time. He pushed a small metal toy car over the dirt and stone strewn ground, his bare feet slapping softly like a bird's wings against the sky. There was a metal rod that he held that connected stiffly to the roof of the tin car, so when he ran holding it out in front of himself, the car speed off, like two souls in an endless and pathetic pursuit.
But the boy seemed oblivious to the world around him, content in the simplicity of this entertainment. And sitting there, watching him absorbed in his own small world, made me for a split second wish for life to once more be so simple to get lost in. The more we are exposed to, the more we're disappointed. What was once an adventure- a bus ride, a plane flight, going to the grocery store with mom- now becomes a nescience. That's what keeps us always searching, always yearning. Nothing good lasts forever- something we've all heard. But that day, while watching the boy with his car, i realized that its not always the good thing that changes, but rather ourselves.
To me, the idea of heaven, is hell. To live each day in the same state, in the same lazy, clouded perfection, seems no better than being burnt alive. Words like always and forever, make my stomach churn, make my skin crawl. What's life without the hope of change? What's the purpose of living if there is nothing to look forward to?
Something horrible is made bearable with the thought that time will take it away. Something wonderful is made precious with the understanding that it will not last.
But yet each day, we live our lives allowing monotony to creep in and destroy all that we ever hoped for. I swear to you, take a miserable man- its not poverty that makes his misery, nor wealth. its not the booze or the bad wife. its not the 9 to 5 job or the arthritis. its the sameness. its that no matter what state he is in, its in a state of constancy. and that... is misery.