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the bargain bin

I walk by the bookstore and see the biographies on sale. Some of them are of sports heroes of years past and some of musicians or actors who are now deceased. Their stories like so many others become unimportant as they blur into the lived history of humanity.

In the end our individual narratives are of less import than the greater meaning of what it is to be human. You could do a paste up with many of these stories and combine elements so that you have created a picture of a fictitious character; one which would still seem real to us because we feel it could be.

There is a little melancholy in seeing the life of another being contained in a discounted book bin and yet this is the way it is supposed to be. Our lives mirror each other and intertwine because across the ages we have not changed all that much. The same fears, illusions and aspirations fill the years of our lives and get us through in passing our knowledge to the next generation. We are forgotten in a way and yet there is a legacy that lives on in the imprint we have left behind.

It’s when we step back and look at the painting that things come into focus. You could be in space staring at the globe before you and imagine the cacophony of all those voices sometimes overlapping and other times individually discernible but all saying very much the same things.

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