On Creative Destruction #It'sOn

Dear reader, did you know that the Eiffel tower has outstayed its welcome? It has committed the mortal sin of not exiting gracefully. To the French, that is such a "faux pas" and yet there it stands bright eyed, bushy tailed in the middle of the city of light. Sacre Bleu! A previous boyfriend of mine, a Quebecois, which in my book doubles as a Frenchman, albeit a reformed one, alerted me to the importance of graceful exits with an amused look on his face. As my other half-Quebecois, half-French childhood friend told me with a straight face when we ran into each other serendipitously after decades have passed, in the center of London, wearing the very same coat, in the very same color, when was I ever cool? I don't do graceful exits; I am not French. Besides, if Paris can withstand the idea of keeping a has-been exhibit from the 1889 world fair, built to be a transient architectural marvel for the momentary pleasure of the revelers, so can I. I must say, European destinations are chock full of buildings shamelessly exhibiting physical manifestations of ornamental beauty. In Florence, you can be forgiven for being paralyzed into a state of transcendence before the presence of the Duomo in Florence, like a bad case of Stendhal syndrome. Lest you think this post is about celebrating Western societies, it isn't. In the far east, Tibetan monks construct mandalas which are works of art using colored sand, solemnly building it with painstaking precision to reach a set outer limit, only to destroy it with a sweep of the hand in one fell swoop. It is as if they want to say life is cruel, finite, easily extinguishable. Such is the miracle of life; not that we are actually alive in the first place, but that we manage to make it from one second to the next unscathed. We humans are prone to disrepair. We forget the lessons of history, we repeat the same mistakes. Thankfully, the passage of time is infinite and we can be fooled into believing we will meet with the same results like we did last time. We are unable to grasp intuitively the forces at play shaping our survival, or sowing the seeds of impending destruction. Until we arrive at the appointed hour and confront our fate, there's no way to know ahead of time of the happy accidents or the looming disaster. Only time will tell. But also time heals. Lest we forget, because we are guaranteed to. Clues of our collective hallucinations exist as deja-vue. The memories hidden deep within us are resuscitated back to life having tripped over a stimuli, replaying a movie reel from years past or perhaps ages ago. The senses are in constant search for prior glory, honing in on a signal to help us find the way home. A place where the scent of Madelines filled the air bathing our very being with mother's love. A parting of the clouds, letting in magical light beams sent direct to squinting eyes with shining wonder. A heavenly sound reverberating through your skin, past the organs, immersing your soul with divine healing. I am convinced this phenomena is real. It must have once lived. I have its imprint dating my carbon rings with ancient wisdom. I must be the creation of entropy, the harbinger of knowledge. I just know it and sometimes I feel it. It is just within my grasp. I reach for it desperately with all my power, my inner core. I guide it in with urgent desire, unrelenting and body crushing. I need it. I want to be made whole. One bit at a time. Until I am all one. A satisfying state of unity infinitum. And then it begins again.