Cookie Jar

written on August 4, 2018

“We are made with the intellect of gods, my brethren” I said aloud in an empty classroom that had ink marks on tables that read Acronyms barely as old as half a decade of human existence’s past. 

I said aloud and I looked at the floor. ‘I must be insane’ I thought to myself; to feel like we’re all in some sort of experimental cookie jar, trapped in our own lack of knowledge of what’s outside it. 

Cookie jar. That is what I’ll call this whirlwind of existence that is full of glorified enormities and nullified meanings. If I may divert, for a few minutes, what if we all lived in the 1950s. England perhaps? Cigars to beat the cold and coats to keep warm, the men. Clad in odd dresses stiffened up to our necks, us women.  Aspiring for happiness, by aspiring to a someday wedding. In the 1950s, you see, to be unwed was to not be a good enough woman. 

What was hot in the 1950s? Literature of course. Now literature is not hot, no no. Literature is just vintage. Literature doesn’t hold a flame to fashion today, does it? No. Literature is just vintage. Beautiful and Vintage. Oh and there was art, as there is now. Art to be interpreted, art to admire, art to be built up to so much worth to make millions at art auctions to hang in a rich man’s home to subtly prove his worth.  

What else was fun in the 1950s? Ah yes, alcohol has always been around, hasn’t it? Just like the Sunshine or the birds. There were morning dewdrops of the previous nights rain. All more noticed, more cherished than it is today. Today we like those things on good days meant for vacation. On days when we aren’t chasing something, or wallowing in something else. Pain and pleasure. As is how is, it’s all here, as it was back then. Not everything from the past made it into this cookie jar though. Few things reside quietly outside it, like dusty pieces of furniture, hoping to hold as much weight as it did again. Like diligence or discipline or courtesy or fruitful toiling or mutual respect or poise or tales of Pinocchio.

All things we have slowly learnt to do without. All things that no longer amuse us enough.  

All things that are left forgotten among the noises of all of us trying to conquer blindly, one thing or another.