Heroes are a type of person. They have a choice, but fundamentally they are just us. The choice is how they live their life and for what. It might be conscious, unconscious or out of their control. A quick thought might be one of those famous faces on the movie screens and a common concept of what a hero might be defined from many films. Those personalities I believe to be present before the person made a choice in or out of their control, to act for others. Those personality traits remain with the person as the film plays out. But that’s still true in reality.
What is #blackouttuesday and should I join?
I’d say the last real day was March 12th. Leading into a Friday 13th. I don't even think the date's connactation crossed my mind, not for very long anyway. For me, this was the day before all the news sunk in. I think in the week prior, the world was running as normal. You’d hear the common noises of our old lives. The continual drowning noises of stop-start traffic and generic city noises. It was in those days that alarm clocks had a purpose. When you'd engage eye contact with strangers. When you could walk into a store and buy a chocolate bar like normal. Or go to work as a barista. A time when hand sanitiser wasn't a commodity. Sports and concerts still ran as normal and, you could support your friends and be a fan in a crowd. On the news, the virus was always a foreign problem, a distant one. You felt safe and ignorant behind the digital screen. I'd still laugh seeing my friends faces from a hand away. I could sense the calm atmosphere together and get angry when they wouldn't pass the iPhone charger. That was before they flipped the switch.
I see the sunset through my rough-cut piece of wood. But to understand what I visualise I'll explain why I see a sense of calm in it.
When I meet a new person, I often look into their eyes. And in that pair of eyes, what can I see? Is there anything to see apart from my own reflection? Do I see the deep dark pits in the centre of their eyes or the strained streaks around it? Or perhaps it's not the physical scars but the ones that lie beneath, I notice. Those silent marks that cannot be replaced, just covered. And I delve deeper imagining how painful it must have felt if I were in their shoes. And thinking if it was justified or instead someone's rage inflicted upon them. I begin to consider what my scars are and if I accept mine or hide their existence? There's so much to someone's life by seeing it through another's eyes.