We think of it as clockwork. Spring, wheel, ratchet, pinion, click, click, click. It hasn’t been scaled down to fit behind a face. It’s a rambling, whirring tangle of intricately interlinked pieces, and it’s impossible to figure out what sets it ticking, or how the tiny movements eventually resolve, until they do. And by then it’s too late.
We think of it as fire. An ember glowing hot and steady, a pulsing heart. And while backs are turned the kindling fuel, the dry debris builds up around it, twig by twig, and we don’t see the catch until the glow becomes a bright tongue, becomes an inferno. And by then it’s too late.
And easy ideas catch in minds like burrs thrown into a gale wind, working themselves in deep, and we could spend an eternity trying to unpick a single burr from this tangle of wet wool. Anyway. It’s too late.
(I can’t remember if I wrote that about the state of global politics or celebrity suicide or a combination of things. Doesn’t matter. This a head-start on my resolution for 2018 to create more, care less and share stuff regardless of how bleak or random or crap it is. Happy Crimbo.)