Grandpa Munster

I sit at Tim Hortons working on my laptop, tinkering with reams of personal research, tying to find ways to effectively deliver messages that people need to hear in order to make their lives better and to give our species the opportunity to survive and to change the universe.

Opposite me, Grandpa Munster, oblivious to my goals in life, circles letters on a grid; solving word-search puzzles. The easiest puzzles in existence. And he’s happy. He’s happy just to be away from the house that is home to another 19 residents, each more mentally troubled than Munster.

The gap between his circumstance and mine; the terrible inequality, it weighs on me. I have all the power in our relationship and it’s not comforting at all. His life still revolves around my visits. This is not what I asked for. It does not flatter me. Now and then we will play some Crazy Eights and for those moments we are equal, but I have little time to spare for that.

It makes me happy to see I have made someone happy.

But to make someone so happy through so little effort of mine, it kind of makes me sad. It makes me think, “If I can do so little which is magnified so much, than why aren’t I doing it more?”