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Friday, April 27, 2012
Other people are relevant. They write about politics or sports or social justice like they were paid newspaper columnists or something. My problem with trying to do that kind of thing is that I'm not a newspaper columnist, paid or otherwise. I figure I already did my time being paid to do a job, a relevant job, at that. But it's finished now, and I'm retired. I don't have to do that anymore.
Now I'm free to be irrelevant. I've earned the right.
So why do I keep on plucking my fiddle here?
Because this is my letter—not to the world—but to whomever comes along to find it. It's like notes I've jotted on scraps of paper that I drop behind me on this path I find myself wandering along.
And because I have an ego fat enough to think that what little lint I tumble onto in my naval gazing might have meaning to someone else who thinks as small as I do.
I believe, you see, that what is inconsequential has significance, that simple things magnify the greater, and that sometimes the cosmos itself can shimmer in the palms of our hands.
And that, grasshopper, is the sound of a tree falling in the forest.