Tonight, I looked into a child's eyes, and I said, "Wow." A mother's gaze, just last week, moved to one of my drawings (of her daughter), and she said, quietly, "Wow." On a recent evening, upon my sailboat, there was a lightning strike in the ocean's distance, and then a hush, and then a crash, and within this night's darkness and storm, an opening in the rolling clouds, and a star, bright and far, and this star was, this short moment, directly BESIDE the terrestrial bolt of lightning, and, I could swear, my own beating heart whispered the same, a hackneyed "Wow" of astonishment.
Our sense of wonder wanes at times. A million little debts fill our years, and they take our souls. I fight the decay of our natural greatness. I fight the plunge into bill-paying and cynicism and heartless practicality. Let us gather our strength for the beautiful and the useless, for the elements of the heavens rather than the elements of mere function. Otherwise, we are animals, gathering meals, pawing at the earth, grotesque in our efficiency, grotesque in our pride of annual savings. We can take little to our afterlife, whatever that may be. We can take nothing, I'm guessing, but memory, the memory of children and mothers and our struggle and our conscience. And it is in these little moments, at play and at work, perhaps in our artwork, even in cartooning, that we find our worth, our souls, little moments... That's all we have.
Perish one day by your own clock. Allow me to take these million moments, and pay my bills, and pay my debt to the myriad folk who pass into my life, making it worthwhile, and not mere duty.
The debt collector most ominous is my own heart, and its bills are not negotiable.
You must live with yourself. Good luck.