[ IP ] Transit

My first word was “ moon. ” 
 
 It ’ s one of my mom ’ s favorite stories to break out when company comes over. How little baby Rob, who ’ d just figured out how to open doors and was generally enjoying the oblivious joy that comes with being a year old, was out on a stroll with mom in the wagon when the full moon was rising over the horizon of a drought-parched Texas suburb. As plastic wheels clacked over cracks in the cement, the moon played peek-a-boo between the houses, and Robert smiled. That big ol ’ disc in the sky was playing with him, and it would just be a *shame* if he didn ’ t name it! Out comes the moon – “ MOON! ” – and back behind the house it goes, then back out it comes – “ MOON! ” And so it went, baby ’ s first word. 
 
 Now, at a year old, he didn ’ t know, at the time, that he was looking at a massive ball of rock and dust flying through space thousands of miles away. He didn ’ t know, at the time, that 26 years before he was born two men had flown to that big ol ’ disc in the sky. He just saw a playmate, ducking behind the houses, as he rolled down the street behind his mom in a sticky Fisher-Price wagon on a summer evening. 
 
 How awesome is that? 
 
 What *happened* to that? 
 
 When did we stop recognizing that kind of beauty? Sometimes, when I ’ m bored, I go out to the park at twilight; dark enough that the stars are starting to wink in but light enough that there are still people out and about. When there ’ s a good moon, or when some distant planet twinkles right behind that big tree in the hill, I get this *massive, * stupid grin on my face. It ’ s space! It ’ s vast! It ’ s awesome! I can see it! What ’ s baffling, though, is that when I do this in public, people give me this look. “ What ’ s up with that guy? ” their eyes say. “ The heck is he so happy about? Doesn ’ t he have work tomorrow morning? Hasn ’ t he heard that another maniac just shot up a school? ” 
 
 Here ’ s the thing. A lot of people think that losing your childhood innocence is part of growing up. The cynics will tell you it ’ s a requirement, the idealists will tell you it ’ s a side effect. In a way, they ’ re right – nobody really comes out of childhood with the same amazement, the same wonder, the same joy of *living* as they had when they were three. It ’ s unfortunate, but true – save for the lucky, sheltered few, growing up means getting hurt, getting scars, and closing yourself off from the world to keep from getting hurt again. George Carlin comes to mind: “ Inside every cynic is a disappointed idealist. ” 
 
 I don ’ t know what happened when I grew up, but for some reason I ’ m a cynic with an idealist inside who just won ’ t keep quiet. That little kid who played with the moon is still in there, and refuses to just up and die, even if it ’ d be easier that way. Thank *God* he ’ s stubborn. 
 
 Because the idealist in me refuses to die, I get a grab bag of effects. On one hand, the cynic in me says, I get hurt a lot. I ’ m disappointed when things don ’ t go to plan and I ’ m left in a rut. I ’ m backstabbed, taken for a sucker, and exploited since I give people trust and respect inherently. I ’ m physically sickened when I read about how humanity is just as barbaric and savage today as ever, be it warlords killing millions on the other side of the planet to societies dedicated to the pursuit of possessions at the cost of their compassion to restaurant diners treating their servers with contempt. It *hurts, * and it only hurts because I hold the belief that things can be *better than that. * 
 
 And that ’ s what makes it worth it, the idealist says. On those rare moments of clarity, I can go back to being a toddler in a plastic wagon and just… *love* this world. Even though humans are inclined towards evil, they ’ re still capable of good. Even though life is a series of unfortunate events and disappointments, there ’ s still the possibility of joy. Even though the universe seems to be doing its darnedest to kill us, there ’ s still beauty in the chaos. 
 
 Sometimes, the cynic in me takes over for a bit. “ What ’ s the point, ” I think, “ Of trying so hard to fight reality. What does it matter if I can be happy for a moment if it means a lifetime of struggle? Wouldn ’ t everyone just dropping dead be easier than this *farce? * ” 
 
 That only lasts for a bit. The Moon reminds me what it ’ s about. 
 
 “ The world is a fine place and worth fighting for. ” I don ’ t know how true the first part is, but I ’ ll go to my grave believing the second. 
 
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 ( For anyone wondering `` Wait, that's not a story!'' I'm working on it as a speech/video narration )
