Relatives

There's an orange, window-shaped light pressing itself against the wall across from me. Though they are white, the walls appear soft blue. This color too has stolen in through the window. It is the color of the last blue in the sky, before it turns to ink. As a moment it is brief. Already it is nearly gone. The orange will remain and appear to intensify as the ambient light fades. It's a strong illusion, relative brightness. Our eyes feel it most when coming out of a movie theater or dark aquarium, in the foglights of a passing car. Relativity, as a concept, governs our lives more than perhaps anything else. Not relativity in a scientific sense. I mean, as one thing relative to something else. When we are happy it is because we feel better relative to our baseline. When we are tired it is because we have less energy relative to our norm. Things that are interesting are more fascinating due to their relative uniqueness compared to something else. All of this is just comparison. But comparison is how we ascribe value, worth, meaning. It is a process of interrogative observation used to discover difference and degree. For some things it is more difficult to make an assessment about relativity. Which love was your favorite? Deepest? Most memorable? Passionate? Is maternal love stronger than romantic love? Is young love more intense than mature love? Which is better?

What are the limitations of comparison though? Realistically our sample size is handicapped by space and time. We can only compare things to other things which we know about and can see and measure. We are limited to that which is observable. Which is a lot, certainly. But it is not everything. How much of what we see is influenced by what we cannot see? How much of what we cannot see is concealed by what we see? A well known picture intended to illustrate this point comes to mind. When a child looks at this drawing they see dolphins. When an adult looks at the same picture they see a man and a woman in an intimate embrace. Our perception is colored by the frameworks and complex mental scaffolding erected by time. It's not just time though, it's the literal physical makeup of our bodies, our brains. Consider that there are concepts so alien to us that we cannot even think them. Our thinking is practically Pavlovian, conditioned by our condition.

There is no true precision, no perfect circle. Isn't it strange to think that every thing is ever so slightly imperfect. In a way, it makes ugliness seem beautiful.

I'm not even drunk or high and this still doesn't make sense. I've been writing for too long while doing other things. Distraction is death to a cogent idea.

I'm tired.