Lost Bottle #2

Dear reader,

What are the saddest words in the English language? The obvious choices come from amongst the myriad synonyms of the word "sad" itself: melancholy, depressed, miserable, and so on. One might choose a word that describes a woeful event: murder, betrayal, genocide... Some words simply have a dolorous bent to them: meander, torpid, ennui... 

But what about "potential"? An odd candidate, perhaps. "Potential" is a word of possibility, of success, of freedom, of potency. Potential is all that is and all that might be. Potential is in every branching crossroads that maps the present into the future. It is in every action, every reaction, every choice. And there is the rub of it, dear reader, for we all have great potential, but each choice we make, no matter how infinitesimal, inexorably dwindles that supply. For what is the making of a choice but the spurning of all other possibilities? 

Each path we choose permanently withers the roads that lie adjacent. The pursuit one dream is the escape of multitude, fading beyond time's reach, their once bright wings bleached of reality's glimmer. Potential slips away insidiously. The wild tangle of futures we once thought glorious, intimidating even, so subtly gives way to a paved street that is all too straight, and we don't even register the change until we notice where our feet our headed. A precipice, a dark tunnel... quite simply, the place where all paths converge, the singularity of potential: in other words, death. 

That is the story of all lives. Choices consume potential, the currency of living. And potential will always run out. And the ultimate sadness is that so often, in youth or in blindness, we squander our inheritance as if it is endless, or perhaps worthless. Time, life, and potential are neither. Their decline is irreversible and nontransferable, and this makes them valuable beyond all else. To make any choice, to take any action, to let a single second slip past is to expend this priceless currency. 

How much happier might the word "potential" seem if each person were to treat each choice as sacred? Not to be caught in the dangerous and equally woeful trap of endless indecision, but at least to pause before choosing and remember that time and life are limited. To be confronted with one's mortality is to confront one's life, and to understand the sadness of potential is to treasure it all the more. Every thoughtless choice is a tragedy. 

Dear reader, choose well.

Lost Bottle #1

Dear reader,

Late yesterday night, I stumbled upon something that, for the first time in a long time, compelled me to write. It was a simple blog, unadorned, inconspicuous, untouched. The blog appeared to chronicle the descent of a single man through depression and madness during the course of a single week, culminating in a grotesque flail of finality, indicating respite in either apathy or oblivion. It had the distinct ring of some sort of suicide note. The entire blog was comprised of a mere five posts, each short message composed with equal parts verbosity, gut-wrenching desperation, and dramatic flair.

What was this miniature masterpiece? Could it be genuine? A final work of art or a work of art meant to simulate finality? I felt disturbed, violated almost. Such a brush with deepest desolation struck the chord of my mortality. Again, what was this, I cried? A sickening piece of performance art or a barren "in memoriam", suspended in cyberspace? A glance at the sitemeter indicated that this testament had little more than one hundred visitors in it's two years of existence. I felt as if I had stepped on sacred ground.

A little while later, after the shock and confusion of the encounter tapered off, I was able to observe my reaction to the strange blog at a more objective angle. What was it about the experience that so pierced me? It was, perhaps, the image of the author, that seared itself into my mind's eye. To subsume one's being into words and sentences, to commit one's very soul to text, and yet to stuff this precious essence into a lonely bottle and cast it out to the digital sea with nary an address or link to give it guidance. Had he no one to confide in? Was his only hope the infinitesimal chance that his errant missive would drift to some kind shore? I hope that it was not so.

How long will that lost bottle letter float, camouflaged by the immensity of the medium in which it is suspended? How many will stop, and read and wonder, before it finally sinks, to be reduced to a mere impression on the palimpsest of internet turnover? Nevertheless, as long as it does remain, it serves to reaffirm the existence and the humanity of both author, whether he be anguished artist or shyster, and of reader.

An emotional experience requires an apt response; and here is mine: a bottle letter of my own, out to sea. I do not know if it will ever be found and read, but it will be out there, somewhere, and that's enough for me. Dear reader, regardless of whether I continue to breathe, think, or live, know that once, I existed, and once, these were my thoughts. Dear reader, know, that you too exist, and be joyful.

Dear reader, thank you.

Lost Bottle #0

Dear reader,

You don't start at one. One implies identity. You don't know me yet. To you, I am nothing. So you start at nothing. You start at zero.

Dear reader, let's begin.