"if people sat outside and looked at the stars each night, I bet they’d live a lot differently. When you look into infinity, you realize there are more important things than what people do all day"
- Calivn and Hobbes
I am occasionally struck by a sense of foreboding when I go out for an evening that I will run into someone I haven’t seen in years and it will be awkward. It scares me more than it should. I suppose that ultimately, regardless of how great a role the past played in shaping the current me, I want nothing to do with it.
It’s strange to think about the ambiguous “I haven’t seem them in years” group of friends that populate one’s past. For the first big chunk of your life, you aren’t even old enough for it to be possible. Or at least you don’t have any control over it. If your friend moves across the country when you’re six, there’s not much you can do.
But there comes a point where you suddenly realize there are people you used to call friends that are so far removed from your life that just the thought of them is odd, like a social phantom limb. And you never think about that possibility in fifth grade. And now you are old enough to do something about it.
And then that group grows, and maybe it has people in it that you were friends with the first time you ever realized the group even existed. And then you move to New York and there are so many people that came here from somewhere else and that “I haven’t seen them in years” group has gotten bigger and it feels more and more likely every day that you’ll turn the corner and be staring one of them in the face.
I have heard said that the release from a sneeze is 1/3 the pleasure of an orgasm.
My sneezes often come in groups of three.