Keys, where the hell are my keys? The door shows no sign of sympathy. My pockets shrug as I grope desperately. Nothing! A dark porch, a locked door, and no fucking keys. Inside my home, on a wooden end table in the living room sits a bowl of keys. Keys to all sorts of locks, doors, ignitions, secrets. Yet, standing here in the dark, on a cold late winter night, alone, none of those keys are within my grasp.
Break a window, I think. Sleep in the car, call an Uber, go to a motel, or face the truth. Locked out of my own life, by my own mind, or lack of its presence. I sit on the stoop, head in hands reviewing the events that have lead to this moment.
Birth, yeah I don’t remember that, but based on research I’m sure it sucked. Childhood, silver fork in my mouth. The good fortune commingled with the reality of human roulette. Relative safety assured, emotional security compromised. Blame is easy, responsibility is a hard-won badge, that doesn’t find its way to many a sash. All the accusations in the world won’t unlock this god damned door, even if they have basis in truth.
How has humanity continued to flourish in this world? Programming is the only answer. Biological imperative. We’ve all felt it, and in moments of bliss, or terror, acted on it. When in our prime we perceive ourselves as having so little to lose. Unbridled passion, lust, imperative win the day, and life is created anew.
Aging reveals new perspective. The misery of yesteryear has lead to the creature comforts of today and yet still misery abounds. Where is the key? The key to happiness, contentment, calm, joy? Based on experience we understand that it is not secured by amenity or safety. Perhaps it is found in acceptance of the true essence of existence. The act of living in which joy plays a part, but is not a given. The reality in which comfort is fleeting, and to be gratefully appreciated as it passes through. Perhaps that is the key.