From: Ryan Knowles
Emptiness is elusive. The wind is elusive, as is water, and the light from the sun as it filters through the condensed water coming from our mouths on these mid-fall mornings. We'd like to grab it and hold it, and we marvel at the great blades and dams and fields of panels faceted like a diamond or a insect's eye that capture these elusive things and turn lights on, or charge cell phones, or make coffee. We recall laying on our backs watching the great mountains made of steam cruising slowly overhead, imagining that maybe they would taste like a marshmallow, or the meringue on top of a pie, but knowing that if we grabbed them, they would elude us. Later, we might graduate with a degree and training and thinking we know everything and not believing how stupid our parents are for not knowing everything like us, but soon we pirouette onto what we think is the main stage, but is really our childhood room with its posters and weird amalgam of every stage of our life, including this one where what we paid $150,000 for eludes us. We watch our grandparents and our parents start taking naps like our kids, and losing their keys, and maybe their minds, and we want them back when they were 30 or 40 or 50 even when they could outrun a runaway truck at the dump or cast a surf rod out past the breakers, but these times elude us. The emptiness of emptinesses could crush us with its weight and drive us mad with its levity, but this is only if we make the mistake of trying to grab it in the first place.
I work as an operations director at Skeleton Key, which is an escape room soon to open its first location in Lynnfield. I've decamped up to the North Shore with my wife Leah, daughter Aurelia, and pug Hermes. Everything is interesting to me other than sports.