The Great Depression

I go away for a week of errands and pleasures and nothing has changed when I return. I fully expected that everything amiss would right itself and welcome me back to enjoy a refreshed world of merriment and mirth. Because the world does not obey, will not follow my directives, and refuses to comply with my whims, I must create a world that does. That is the beauty of fiction.

Granted, plenty of folks will say, "That ain't real" as though it shouldn't count. But I beg to differ. The invented world, whether a science-fiction planetary system or a variation on the contemporary here and now of Main Street USA, is a refuge for the weak and weary. I do not mean to suggest we go quietly into that good night, hiding in a fantasy world and ignoring, forgetting the real world outside. What I mean is that the invented world is a safe space - even if it is found in a horror novel - a place we can rest and recover, take stock, make plans, and re-armor ourselves.

For the outside world is cruel, needlessly so perhaps, yet so vicious that few can affect their daily existence in any meaningful way without severe trials and tribulations. It's hard out there, out there in the jungle. It's a doggy dog world out there! A dog-eat-dog world would be worse. What we need is a bunny-infested world. People would be required to pet a bunny at least twice a day. Or a puppy. Or a kitty. Or a whatever.

Then there is the dulling determination of the drug industry with a pill for every condition, even the conditions that did not exist before a cure could be found. Somewhere there is an herb we could grow in a backyard and make a tea from it which would cure all our ills. Yet if we could monetize that herb, we could make a whole boatload of money - no matter if anyone finds their life path improved. The other escapes are liquid, with no better results.

Some people have complained about it being the times we live in. Yet each generation complains about the times we live in. New stresses, new obstacles - all the same just with different names. So why now? Why so many going away? An oft posted meme states something like this: We have no idea what each person is struggling with. Yet we do; we know it is the same pressures we all face. Some fight it, some negotiate, some give in. 

Or it's a chemical imbalance brought on by pollutants in our environment, our food, our medicine, everything we touch and what we breathe. In other words, our world is sick and little by little cleansing itself of the infection . . . which might be us. Might be. Seems reasonable to return to a less-industrialized means of food production - to save the children, you know. Yet who is telling us the truth about anything? 

Sometimes, when the evening is late, I feel a shadow in the room and it gradually comes up behind me and seems to sweep itself over me and everything changes. I hear the thumping of pistons at work in a galaxy far away, a cricket in the next yard warning me about tomorrow, a bit of paper blowing on the breeze in another town keeping my darkest secrets away from me and my attempts to destroy them, another cup of tea to calm a bitter soul - yet I sit back and realize it is all a ruse. It feels real, but it is not. Still, people die from dreams. And dreams unfulfilled.


Pick up a book and go to your safe place. And to everyone in every other moment, be kind, be supportive, lend a hand, say a compliment, let each other know we exist and we are valued. Pet a pet. Breathe the air and walk in the park. Don't think too much.



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