Notecard: No real scale

As a child your life has no real scale. You can seemingly survive any disaster because there is not much to lose except a set of plastic horses, or a prized copy of Microsoft Encarta, or a weather radio shrieking off and relaying events in its crackling robotic male tone—or your parents, who you believe in the back of your mind could never possibly die. Back then, I knew nothing about climate change, which now keeps me ostrich-in-the-sand (I am ashamed to say) with regards to the headlines made by the weather, and of the apocalyptic potentiality to come. 

My childhood longing had abstracted this danger, and in my love, I wanted to see the true face of that which I loved—to see what was always hiding beneath the surface of polite clouds and immutable jet streams, to see the sky at its most base and cathartic, to listen to the howl of something that could utterly destroy you, to long for a certain kind of curious annihilation, something that would finally redeem all that fear. A sad fact of growing up is that when you are an adult, the weather-love is not as intense. Fear is justified every day in the news. Storms are something your landlord mutters about beneath his breath. The polite skies are enough for you. You’ve become something that can be destroyed. 

- from The Sky Was There and I Could Read It via Popula

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