Broken Glass

“Why are we worn out? Why do we, who start out so passionate, brave, noble, believing, become totally bankrupt by the age of thirty or thirty-five? Why is it that one is extinguished by consumption, another puts a bullet in his head, a third seeks oblivion in vodka, cards, a fourth, in order to stifle fear and anguish, cynically tramples underfoot the portrait of his pure, beautiful youth? Why is it that, once fallen, we do not try to rise, and, having lost one thing, we do not seek another? Why?”

― Anton Chekhov

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Dear Kate,

I don't know if, in those exact details, Chekhov's questions are for this age, but no doubt they are questions for the ages.

When do you stop living, stop asking for more?  I suspect many of us have come to learn not to ask very early on. 

I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch

He said to me, "you must not ask for so much"

And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door

She cried to me, "hey, why not ask for more?"

Who are we to ask?  Who listens?  For the once or twice in life when we got what we truly wanted, the moments were falsified before daybreak and we found ourselves wanting again, looking for the next truth to disprove.

You got a ring from your lover but it doesn't ring true forever.  The echo it makes in the hollow darkness of eternity tells you something is missing: it's too big, it's too small, it tarnishes, sometimes vanishes after a simple hand wash, a fruitful engagement in everyday living.  Chekhov again: "Any idiot can face a crisis; it's this day-to-day living that wears you out."  The ring you wear wears you out.

So you stop asking.  You accommodate.  You concede.  You reduce your questions to make them answerable.  Answers galore you find on sale to shape your life's quest into a series of non-question.  With no compelling narrative, you are disengaged with the story of your life.  No bad news is worse than you are steadily dying; no good news is better than no bad news, at least for today.

Still Chekhov: "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass."

Well, the moon is shining.  You weren't asking about it, and I don't need to show you what you can plainly see.

Yours, Alex