I am too cavalier, sometimes, a funny mixture with my interminable and indefatigable anxieties.

I keep wondering about the first signs, the early signs. The ones that slip right by unnoticed. Only later, maybe, do you manage to identify and categorize the pattern, align the puzzle pieces, match their fuzzy, rounded edges.

Early signs of illness, of slipping, of misfortune, of curses. Early signs that the food's gone bad or that a relationship is souring. Early signs that a work project is going to be more difficult than expected. Early signs of aging, dementia, death. What good are early signs unnoticed.

Wouldn't it be better if we could notice these tiny little flags for what they are? But without the trajectory of time they are fairly useless. Too much input and stimuli. Our minds can often barely handle the cognitive load as it is.

So much of growing up seems to be about understanding the fine and delicate balancing act between objectivity and subjectivity, noticing and projecting. You are a person, whole and in everyway tethered to your people, your kin, you location. You are not a pair of floating eyeballs. The earth under your feet measures your every step, I promise.