Glass and Cowboys

Posted on October 5, 2007


Analogy One:

And all of a sudden I was against something incredible. My face was pressed against the glass of the next segment of my life. As I looked in my breath fell and clung to the surface in front of me.

I had this abrupt feeling that I should be on the other side.

This transition was much different than before. It wasn’t a dirt path, not a quick jot down a downtown road, not even a highway; it was glass. I was either on one side of the glass or the other. The more sure that I became about wanting to be on the other side the more I realized there was no inbetween.

And so I went to the other side of the glass. No turning back. No second thoughts. No doubt. No heartache. No turning back.

Analogy Two:

My fingers were looped around one of the fabric straps on Alex’s life jacket. He was sitting in front of me and I was holding on tight so I would not fall in. The black and red sea-doo zipped through the cold water. When the sea-doo made sharp turns, the horizon, miles off in the distance, turned only into a line. It wavered and did not remain on it’s axis like it should have. It was almost like whoever holds the string of the horizon in front of our small human faces was late in re-adjusting it to match my angle. (Sounds a bit like existentialistic but I’m just describing what it looked like.)


(A.k.a. words that have to be written lest they drive me crazy all day)

The horizon is a man-made structure, is it not? Granted we needed names for things we saw, and that line in the distance was sure something we wanted to name. But who would have guessed that by naming the illusion, that line, that it would become something we would think is attainable?

It must be the age of the cowboys again because I know so many people who get hung up on that horizon. They feel like their constantly stuck on the other side of a sheet of glass because they can’t grab a hold of that horizon and wield it to their own liking. The point of a cowboy riding off into the distance is to keep moving, not to lasso the line that the sun hits.

Walk where your feet are. There’s a reason you’re still driving, a reason you’re still on the path you’re on, and there’s a reason your shoes are taking the steps that they are. Don’t stare at your feet but don’t make the fatal mistake of thinking you can wrap your bare hands around that horizon. It will always be in off in the distance in front of you until you’re dead. (Taunting you, haunting you.)

Maybe the horizon would be better named “the future”. That way we might not have as many cowboys hung up on it. In the evening the sun would set into the future and Jack Sparrow would not say, “Now, bring me that horizon” but instead, “Now, bring me the future”.