When I was a child, I saw my first rainbow. I had rainbows on all my binders and lunch boxes but this was the first real one and I was enthralled. Of course I knew how it worked, but it was still magic. It was actually when my mother wanted to say a prayer that I became irritated—I didn’t want it to be God’s rainbow, I wanted it to be my rainbow.
For some reason that still bothers me mildly. Existential ennui goes the other way too. A rainbow that’s out there, that I can see, is pretty wonderful. I can think what I like about it; I can write my own poem; I can find out about the physics. A rainbow that’s already pre-installed into a complete worldview, all finished and laden down with duty—that’s profoundly depressing.
It’s odd that you mention rainbows.
When I was a child, I saw my first rainbow. I had rainbows on all my binders and lunch boxes but this was the first real one and I was enthralled. Of course I knew how it worked, but it was still magic. It was actually when my mother wanted to say a prayer that I became irritated—I didn’t want it to be God’s rainbow, I wanted it to be my rainbow.
For some reason that still bothers me mildly. Existential ennui goes the other way too. A rainbow that’s out there, that I can see, is pretty wonderful. I can think what I like about it; I can write my own poem; I can find out about the physics. A rainbow that’s already pre-installed into a complete worldview, all finished and laden down with duty—that’s profoundly depressing.