Author: David M. Rubin

I'm a philosopher and writer living in New England. I enjoy musing over the complexities of human nature, imagining their possibilities, and discovering hope in the darkest of circumstances.

The validation game

In the era of social media, we are packed together like a billion sardines competing for visibility and validation. There is little space to individually define and express ourselves, without a mob of discontents taking notice and attempting to modify what we want to believe about ourselves and our world.

To be yourself, often comes at the “imagined” expense of how others define or think of themselves, and so these “others” fight back to regain or preserve what they think is being lost or threatened by your existence, including their cherished delusions and comfortable lies. Merely expressing your opinion, will cause “some” virtual strangers to fear being invalidated as to their own opinions and beliefs, and so they will employ any means possible to invalidate you first, or worse.

© 2021 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.

Reconnaissance dog

We walked down the thicket path to Main street, keeping our heads low, covertly peeking through the clearings of foliage. Old vehicles – some military – were lined up on both sides of Main, one after another, their engines running. Men with assault rifles sat on the bumpers, taking turns patrolling the street, slowly turning their heads in 180 degree arcs, ready to defend the flanks. Some remained on standby inside their vehicles; others were crowded onto the attached flatbeds, sweating profusely and guzzling down beers. A rough looking crowd covered in war tats and wearing mismatched uniform attire, like they were going deer hunting after a weekend military exercise.

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Rendezvous

I had no reason for being there so late, not a legitimate one. The school day had ended two hours earlier, and the hallways were cleared by now, not even one student dragging his or her feet. Bus #253 – the late bus – was already gone, and so I was on my own. Home was close, but too far to walk.

Miss Dupre – my French teacher – spotted me in the corridor after locking her office door. She’d already driven me home countless times in previous weeks, and I was positioning myself for yet another late day ride with her.

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The return

The dreaming writer and his muse enter the garden, leaving their fig leaves at the gate. Now alone and denuded of all manner of covering, they are happier beyond belief, for there are no longer the obstacles of shame and separation, nor the judgments of others. There is only the writer with his imagined muse, dwelling and playing within God’s heavenly garden, where every tangible need is provided for.

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