Imagine a world where we never have to accommodate for others, because everyone is the same. We all agree. We’re all the same.

No one is ever too late or too early, because everyone has the exact same perspective on time as you.

Planning trips are a breeze, because everyone has the same tastes and interests.

Traffic always moves at exactly the right speed, and everyone merges and signals the same way you do; in perfect sync.

All the things you love are celebrated, shared, discussed. All the things you loathe are reviled. Everyone, everywhere, is in perfect agreement with you.

The world, and everything in it, attuned to your every whim. No push-back (no challenge). No bad days (and nothing to contrast with good days). No frustration by which understand delight. No one else against whom we can understand and measure our own personal growth– or aspire to be like.

Never having to accommodate the needs of others. Never needing to compromise. Never a day when faced with the uncomfortable question: do I matter here?

Instead it’s a world of clones, everywhere; a narcissists heaven. A circle jerk of regurgitating self congratulatory praise for the shared wisdom, maturity, and intelligence of all denizens.

I honestly can’t think of anything more boring.

I will never understand people who want to eradicate diversity. Hell, I don’t understand those who rail at accommodation and compromise for essentially harmless personality flaws. I’d rather deal with a well-intentioned late person than a punctual neo-Nazi.

The ideal morning

On an ideal morning, I would wake up with (or shortly after) the sunrise, as usual; the grey-dawn light of my room suffused pale and dim.

I would pad out to the silent, dawn-lit kitchen, and start the coffee. Put two cups on the counter– one for me, one for John. A tablespoon of sugar, a splash of half and half.

Let the dogs out. Scratch the cats’ head.

Curl up on the couch. I have not yet said a word. No voice or observation has broken the morning silence. The dogs settle, quiet and snuffling, at my feet. I open my FB feed and scroll through the morning news.

The coffee beeps. I unfurl. Pour into the readied cups. Return to my seat to nurse the bitter-sweet drink and beautiful solitude. The dogs, roused by my movement, have followed me into the kitchen and back, and settle once more.

I do not feel the need to comment on it.

I do not speak to them.

I open a book.

For the next several, silent hours of my ideal morning, I would read.

I would not initiate speech, or turn on jabber noise, or text anyone. Just, for a few precious hours … stolen silence.