It’s a rare thing, to hit up on a subject and find yourself unworthy to tackle it, whether in conversation or blog. Rarer still (for me) to write a blog and have already found a title for the blog. I’m too used to just writing and deciding after the fact what the subject was. It’s like when you give birth (for those of you who have the reproductive organs necessary to do so, that is) and only after the tiny wrinkled miscreant has made his entrance, do you look at him and say “well he looks like a Joseph.” Or an Ethan. While your other partner (the one without the requisite reproductive organs necessary for giving birth) looks at that same parasite and says “well he looks like a bloody prune to me, but whatever”.
(Yes, I said “parasite”. If it’s good enough for Dr. House, it’s good enough for me.)
The word “resonance” is that wrinkled bloody prune to me. Well, except I look at it and there’s nothing wrinkled or prunish about it. There *is* such a thing as taking a metaphor too far, which evidently is certainly the case here, isn’t it?
Resonance is that final *click* of the puzzle piece. That loud *snap* you hear, sometimes only internally, when someone says something that you just *know* is the key to the entire argument; it’s the final argument to the jury, the one you know paints the full picture for all to see. And you see this confirmed by the hanging head of the prosecutor, who finally realizes just how badly he’s been beaten.
Dissonance is what we live with from day-to-day. We get so used to its presence that eventually it starts to feel normal to us. It gets lost in the camouflage of our lives that we can only really see it when resonance makes its loud presence on the stage of our life.
Sometimes resonance comes to us when we hear a particular song, when you realize that the combination of notes and lyrics *perfectly* describes your longed-for hopes. The dreams you’d thought you’d forgotten.
By now of course, I realize that all of this sounds horribly ephemeral. You can’t easily chew on this topic.
You can’t swallow what you can’t chew.
(My God I’m so deep)
I look at the guy in the mirror, as he’s getting ready for yet another day at the grind, and inwardly, I cringe, thinking that I’m the world’s worst sellout. If I’m not doing the thing that drives me, what the freaking hell am I doing?
Yes, I’m building a base for the following of my dream. Logic raises its hand, demanding to be acknowledged. “Fine, Logic – I get it. You fresh-faced ass-kisser.”
Date after date seems an exercise in frustration. She’s too needy. Or this one’s too into the picket fence scene. This other one is certain that she’s stupid/ugly/too fat/whatever and having been married to someone with low self-esteem you are loath to play the psychologist anymore.
Once in a while though – you see an old couple in their 80’s. You watch as they hold hands and finish each other’s sentences. And it hits you.
Such examples serve as proof of the validity of your dreams. Not just about a mate, but about pretty much everything. You understand that others have gone before you, fighting the futility of The Machine, against all odds, against The Beasts of their youth, and they’ve achieved what you long for.
That realization resounds deep in your soul. It drowns out gibbering and clattering masses of deadlines, expectations, monotony.
You’ll be damned if you’ll hold back. You don’t care what your friends think, or what the daily job demands of you. It doesn’t fucking matter, in the end. You’ll pursue that spark. Maybe in the doing, you’ll find the playful mate you’ve been searching for. That’s not the goal though. The goal is one thing, and one thing only.