Getting Dizzy

This isn't an S.O.S. call.

An S.O.S. implies there is someone in danger and they need rescuing. And I don't need to be rescued. These jumbles of words that I send out, the random thoughts, the weird lists, the poems, the experiments in writing, are not a cry for help. They're more of a cry of existence. A signal I send out whose only purpose is to proclaim:

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.

Every now and then I need to lie down. It don't matter where really, but when I need to I prefer to lie on the grass with the sunshine giving me the sunburn I've always been susceptible to. People pass me. I'm sure some of them give me a weird look. I mean, if I saw a girl lying on the grass with her arms sticking out creating a T with her body, I'd stare too. No one every asks me what I'm doing. But I have a reason. I get dizzy. Every now and then I get so dizzy I have to lie down. The world is spinning at about 900 miles per hour. That's a fact. And even after 22 years of being on this planet, I still get dizzy.

Our world is huge. Physically speaking, it's bigger than I can completely comprehend. And it's full, jam-packed with people. Six billion of them. That's a number that is too big for me to understand. I mean, yes, I understand the number. It's a 6 followed by 9 zeros (6,000,000,000). But whenever I think about how each of of those people, from person #1 to person #6,000,000,000 is completely unique, I get dizzy. Each one of those six billion is living his or her life and has his or her own conscience. They all think about things. Each one has goals, dreams, experiences, triumphs, failures, loves, and heartaches. Each person is DIFFERENT.

Think about that long enough and you'll start to feel dizzy too.

Six billion people on this Earth...

Then there's me. I'm one of those six billion. Just one. it reminds me of what Humphrey Bogart's character says towards the end of Casablanca,

I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.

If the problems of three people don't amount to a hill of beans, then the problems of just me don't mean shit. With everything going to crap in the world today, I really can't complain about things that have been troubling me. But in that similar train of thought, not only do my problems seem to amount to shit but also my existence. There are 6,000,000,000 people out there. Six-goddamn-billion. More likely than not, I'm not going to do anything in my lifetime that will stand as proof I existed, that I was even here.

Yes, people who are close to me now, who have been close to me in the past, and those who will be close to me someday might remember me. But for how long? At some point in time, not only will i no longer exist on this planet, but every single person who knew me, regardless of how well, will not exist either. If I do have children one day, as I sincerely hope I do, they will remember me. And when they have children, they will also remember me. I may be lucky enough to live to see my great-grandchildren. But they will most likely not remember me. They will be too young. Then one day I will no longer be on this Earth. My body will be disposed of and fester into something else and my soul will go somewhere, either heaven or hell or maybe somewhere in between (I don't know where, really. But I do believe it will go somewhere. There has to be more than this) and my great-grandchildren will have kids, and then they'll have kids and so on like those pages from the bible. By then I truly will not exist. I'll just be a name on a family tree somewhere. It will be like I never even existed. I was never here.

Think about that long enough and you'll start to feel dizzy too.

So I send out these beacons, these signals of existence. I don't do it to show off. (it's silly to show off when you don't have the facts to back it up.) I write all of these things in the improbable hope that one day some one might find it, read it, and feel something. He might feel some connection to me, even though we will have never met. And when he reads what I wrote and feels what I felt, and know just a small of who I was, even for just the briefest moment of time, I will exist again. I will only be the ghost of a memory, but I will exist. This massive tangle of words I use to try and explain my life will still act as a beacon:

I Was Here.

Love you.
Mean it.