You don't have to rise from the dead to be relevant.
It may just be that I live with my family that I'm constantly being reminded (whether I want to be or not) that I'm important. I'm needed. I'm loved. Sometimes Descartes' cogito ergo sum (I think therefore I am) model for existentialists, really doesn't ring true (it doesn't for most existentialists either). At what point do some of the people in my life become lines in text messages or just faces on a screen? I suppose if anyone is reduced to anything, I prefer their voice on a telephone (I always prefer to go blind than deaf). Regardless I'm beginning to see the ugly truth I've never wanted to see before. It has a habit of sneaking up on me, typically at work, when I'm in the middle of some mundane task and I've allowed my mind to wander freely, some appeasement I suppose for keeping my body in one place. Why it always goes for the gut first . . . I'll never know. While I'm still reeling from that blow, it wraps its hands around my throat and chokes me. I feel the tears coming to my eyes but I always stop them. I always stop them when it's the truth that's causing them. I will not give truth the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Truth figures that out, and while it loosens its grip, it travels down to the chambers of my heart where it resides and every beat is a reminder that I am here.
One part of the truth I've learned is while a proverbial shout-out, a message in a bottle sort of deal in a blog, in a sea of lives, the net cast is quite large and really who is special that responds? Lots I suppose. I just don't know ya. But a hand that reaches out in the night, across a bed, a hand that rests on your back . . . it may not be as serendipitous as the first, but it can feel as surreal. It can be just as charming. And it certainly should be reassuring that despite everything . . . you are relevant.
