I love fireworks. Ever since I was a child, I've been looking at those big, beautiful, beacons of happiness in the sky whenever they happened nearby. I watched them with my family, with my friends, with my girlfriend, with my wife. It's one of my few pleasures during summer.
I love firewoks. They're a simple, yet complex, pleasure. They're bold, yet subtle. They're dangerous, yet so distant. As long as you've got eyes in good enough working condition, you can enjoy them. Even better if you've also got ears that can hear to some extent. Or so I thought.
I loved fireworks. I can seldom really enjoy a firework show these days. To me, they're almost as much of an auditory experience as they are a visual one. About 15 years ago, maybe a bit more, there was a shift. Somehow, suddenly, fireworks stopped being beautiful enough. The pops and sizzles, and sparkles became a nuisance. Not to me, but to the entities that organized those shows.
Suddenly, the calm, solemn anticipation became replaced by soon-to-be-written-by-AI insipid pop music; the excitement of realization drowned in the same distraction.
It's tragic to realize that the world doesn't see beauty where you see it.
I watched fireworks with my wife yesterday. It was enjoyable but it could have been so much more. Instead, the pleasant company dampened the nails on the chalkboard. Despite all my grumpiness about the inadequacies of the world, I still love fireworks.