Perceiving through a glass darkly...
Meeting Margeaux's little dog, still relatively unplayed with, untravelled, and - dare I leap to such conclusions - uncuddled, I found myself thinking, this week, about what it is to grow old. We synthetic organisms, I feel, have a curious outlook on age: we have no genes that disintegrate with replication; our furs, though perhaps less fluffy as Time's winged chariot hurries near, are chemically identical to how they always were; we do not grow, or metamorphose into butterflies.
And so age, for me at least, must be about learning new things, exploring new horizons, finding room in which to love and be loved, and reaching, with outstretched paws, to stars, infinite in variety, that we may never grasp in our own lifetimes. To grow old is to become as true to oneself as one can be, to be the best little dog that one can be, however falteringly.
And all this leads me to two conclusions of immeasurable importance:
1.) I have a much nicer collar than I used to.
2.) Despite the obvious invitations to comparision, Lost has nothing to do with Locke, Rousseau or Enlightenment philosophy.