2 minute read
Parallax. It’s a strange word. I know. As though I received a Word of the Day calendar for Christmas and feel contractually obligated to deploy every obscure entry I encounter. My AI therapist assures me I am not an Intellectual Peacock. I remain unconvinced.
I’m not sure why I do it — hyper-fixate on concepts the way other people collect hobbies. Whether it’s age, boredom, or something I’ve always done subconsciously and only recently noticed, I can’t say. Like a gunfighter who still sits with his back to the door long after he’s hung up the belt. An odd reference, I realize, but I spend an embarrassing amount of time watching the Clint Eastwood 24/7 channel.
I look for meaning. I look for connections — a skeleton for my thoughts to hang on. I turn ideas this way and that, testing their weight, trying to match their edges. I start to build a city in my mind and then realize I must have overzealously thrown out the instructions when I recycled the box.
I was once told I was trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.
I don’t think that’s it.
In retrospect, I think he was just trying to let me down easy.
I think the meaning for me is more like an old lock for which you’ve lost the key. You don’t hammer it. You angle the picks carefully, tilting them a fraction. Subtle pressure. A nearly imperceptible adjustment. Until the tumblers align and something inside releases.
It’s a mantra, really — the why, the where, the how of it all. I pat down context like I’m checking my coat for something I know I had a moment ago. Not exactly panic. Just a certainty that if I change the angle, I’ll find it.
Sometimes nothing changes except where you’re standing.