The spring rains are sweeping across this town and city with a ferocious intent to wipe out every stabbing memory of winter cold. But every now and then, a slight breeze returns the sickening feeling...
Why should I even begin to think that life will turn out the way I'd envisioned it to a few years from now?
Living in the mathematical certainty of economic forecasts, timed meetings, weather predictions, statistical data, organised crime and carefully formulated medicines--- I'm surprised that the increase in life's uncertainties have not yet begun to fester in our perceptions.
We stuff an umbrella under our arms because rain is forecasted. But how often have we stepped out and found a sky-full of sunshine instead?
Our economists are so full with statistics, theories, formulae and definitions; but even a century after the Panic of 1907, we still see the same predictable patterns that manage to bring down the economy time and again.
Statistics statistics. Ah statistics.
And how often have we heard stories of victory against the biggest odds?
Say you were standing with one foot in the oven and one foot in an ice bucket. According to the percentage people, you should be perfectly comfortable. ~Bobby Bragan, 1963
Definition of Statistics: The science of producing unreliable facts from reliable figures. ~Evan Esar
In ancient times they had no statistics so they had to fall back on lies. ~Stephen Leacock
Who knows how life will be a second from now?
Nobody knows, a vast majority seem to think we do... But oh how precarious are our lives on this little planet- just a drop in the vast sea of the universe.
Now that school is over and all I have is my books and my cat for entertainment, I'm worried. What will this itchy restlessness drive me to do? I'm already starting to have some really extraordinary dreams just like the ones I used to have when I was 7 or 8.
I'm starting to see the faces of people I wish I could talk to again.
I never see people now unless they are passerbys on the street or some unknown figure in the library.
My whole world now is a world of books and paper, wet running shoes and a black furry ball of claws and meows.
When I flush the toilet, I think about where its contents are rushing towards. When I walk through the rows and rows of shiny wrapped goods in the grocery store, I feel as if some plastic apocalypse is about to happen but I'm not sure when or how. When I hear the voices of women praising God from across the street, I wonder how much longer will we be able to enjoy the luxury of living as unpersecuted Christians.
I've had my bible for 12 years now- a black leatherbound gift from my father. I still remember exactly where I was and who I was when he first bought it for me.
Will there be a time when I hold the bible more precious than its contents? I pray not.
Will there be a time when I hold the body more precious than life itself? I pray not.
I pray and guard myself against all these things, until it's my time to go.
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