Black and white. Good vs Evil. Night and Day.
Dramatic contrast.
Despite assuring ourselves that we are rational, logical, thinking beings, there are times when mild superstition still wins out. Granted, some of us are deluding ourselves by any claims that we're rational, but we're going to ignore that particular facet of delusion in the face of the current subject.
"At least it has to get better from here."
How many of you cringed at that? How many of you automatically groan and try to shush anyone foolish enough to say, "It could be worse," because invariably, it promptly gets worse?
Perspective.
It has to get better. There has to be an upswing, all superstitious paranoia aside. Note that I'm not saying that the instinctive cringing at the words is wrong. Too much evidence exists to remind us that if we say it can't get worse, or could be worse, that it usually does just to remind us that we aren't perfect.
But it has to get better. Stay with me here.
Black and white. Good vs Evil. Night and Day.
Better vs Worse.
At some point during the storm, when we're so numb from our world collapsing around us and feeling sorry for ourselves, the human brain reaches a point where Enough is Enough. It stops even trying to make sense. The amount of pain that we can properly process reaches a certain pinnacle and we grow tolerant, desensitized to what is being thrown our direction.
At some point, hysterical laughter often takes over. At some point, it all seems so bloody unbelievable that I often think we start questioning whether or not it's even real.
It has to get better, if only so that Worse remains a frame of reference and not a void. Without the contrast, there is nothing to measure against. There's no standard, no way of knowing whether something truly is a Bad Thing or not.
If there's nothing to gain, what does loss mean? If you have nothing left to lose, how will you know it if you do not also stand to gain something in return?
It has to get better, if only to remind us what we're fighting for in the first place.
Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.
Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.
Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.
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