by

Ron Lagerquist

Six thirty AM.  Clock radio announces the beginning of another morning.  A worn-out tape with your name on it slides into a video machine and yet another day begins.  Same little worries play out as yesterday, same cup of coffee, politically correct anecdotes, petty domestic dramas, canned conversation and fatigued face in the morning mirror.  How much of your day do you perform subconsciously?  You may be surprised.  Sleepy patterns barely needing your presence to execute.  A day of well-rehearsed reflex actions, from brushing teeth to dinner table talk.  I once met someone who said, “My wife and I have been married so long that I know what she is going to say even before she says it.”  Over the years they simply stop talking, tired of repeating the same old things or simply having nothing left to say.  The behavior of a caged animal is like this, seen in the bald path where day after day the creature circles the boundary of their tiny world devoid of passion and curiosity. 

By the time we hit our thirties, there is a nagging feeling life is set in concrete, the tape has been recorded and little can be done to change.  Mid-life-crisis hits.  Adults begin to behave strangely trying to recapture the whimsicalness of bygone years.  A thousand perfectly normal middle aged men dress up in Elvis suits; mothers wear Brittany Spears midriffs and navel rings.  Long or short hair, dragon or butterfly tattoo, rock or blues, a recycled sixty’s who am I in bell-bottom jeans.  None of these can define individuality because purpose has its own shape, unique to each one of us, a shape that cannot be filled by, cars, music, drugs or food.  

Passing the invisible timeline from Youthful Seeker into adulthood can be a miserable feeling.  Slavery to the clock, job and raising family is all that is left, except for odd escapes of entertainment.  And after awhile, even sitcoms all look alike.