Dreaming of miracles is human. Yet we are that which we seek, every conscious thought a tribute to the Frankenstein spark. Nature, God, test tube – whatever brings life, it is an astounding privilege to exist. That our seed is sown, grows, is born, continues to grow, lives, experiences (unique, no matter how many bodies), slows, fades and dies to make room for further opportunity… this is miraculous.
Unfortunately, miracles are tempered by chance. So says the child born to the ghetto, with little hope of reaching the heady heights of ordinary – the comfort of which must seem resolutely out of reach. Those fortunate enough to live quiet lives of plenty still strive to break new ground. Survival, evolution, the hunt, pride or mercy, whatever the drive, it is a persistent struggle to make sense of our privilege.
Some fail to discover why it matters and choose not to be a miracle any longer, but for most aspiration is enough and with that, the new are born.
It is the search for a secondary miracle that taunts us. We live the first, but forever yearn for more.
And so we dream.