not in our stars, but in ourselves
Like most of you, I’ve spent yesterday and this morning in what I’d term as blind shock. When I got home from work last night, I turned on the news, as I often do, and the news was terrifying. The images out of Paris were so frightening as to be almost surreal. The more that came to light about the attacks, the more horrible they became. This feels like the beginning of a very, very dark new chapter for humanity – and I’m as scared as I am sad.
What I do here on this dumb blog has always been insignificant, whether in the big or the small picture. It feels especially futile now. Nevertheless – what else can I do? I can’t, and won’t, ignore what’s happening around me; but I can find a few hours of solace each week, losing myself in someone else’s story, and then seeing if I can incorporate that story into an understanding of how to be a better person. What I do is meaningless, but art isn’t, and it’s always helped me – whether in the face of personal or geopolitical catastrophe.
The only way to remain sane in an insane world is to value, even more highly than ever, art and love. I sound like a starry-eyed teenager, and maybe I am, at heart. But while I watch the news and feel the bottom of my stomach drop out, I can be grateful that I’m surrounded by people I love, who love me; and that there are some beautiful old celluloid dreams I can experience along with millions of others; and that there are symphonies, novels, paintings, ballets, to provide a few hours of illumination in the darkness. That doesn’t fix anything – but it helps.