This tree has yet to bear any fruit. Occasionally, my thoughts will return to its baren branches, and I’ll hang some tinsel.
So what’s the issue?
The issue is, everything’s a soundbyte, a meme, a boosted peak. The same prechewed morsels, foisted upon anyone in range, all the savory goodness of the thing sucked out. A copy of a copy of a copy. The irony being, of course, that I’m not the only one sharing this sentiment either.
The issue is, it’s all just sandcastles, waiting for the tide. But on the off chance that mine might stand forever, what should it be a monument to? What is the form of my lasting contribution to humanity? Am I the future’s forgotten ancestor, just another name and some dates on a family tree? Will my genes survive the evolutionary process? Will my thoughts? Does it matter?
The issue is, I have a gift, but I can’t find the hat full of names to draw from for Secret Santa, and I don’t know what’s inside unless somebody asks me.