It just struck as I was typing in the title how ironic those words are juxtaposed. A paperweight is a heavy object to stop papers from flying away in the breeze (when ventilation came in the form of windows or ceiling fans, not HVAC ducts). But something that weighs the same as paper might as well be featherweight.
An earthquake has struck Pakistan and India. Flood and mudslides in Central America this week. A hurricane hit the Gulf States. A tsunami hit the Andaman. All involve death, destruction, pain, sorrow, triggered by Acts of Nature. I suppose some may look into it as a series of divine signs, not coincidence. Whatever. It’s just hard to bear. Somewhere out there is a stooping old woman and bowed old man, trudging under the weight of our collective misery.
It just makes me think, I should console myself, or even celebrate the little things in my life that go right, because they aren’t gone wrong.
Clean water flowing out of taps I turn. The heat of blue flames emanating from the stove allows me to cook anything I fancy. I can taste salt, as well as sugar, sourness and phet. Illumination from lightbulbs switched on and off by my command. I know how to ride a bike and I can swim. I can dial a phone and talk to any of my nearest and dearest. I can slumberously enter dreams more fantastic than any fiction. Music exists: soft scarves beautifully knitted of sound. The Simpsons and South Park are on in syndication back to back on late night TV. Warm showers can be adjusted to any blood temperature. The library offers books and more, and asks nothing of me in return.