In this moment, I recall the story of the children in an orphanage of wartorn Yugoslavia, before war broke up provinces into countries.

One boy had lived in a crib for the first few years of his life and no one taught him a language.

He had his own logical babble that included a few words he had picked up from overworked caregivers.

He had a broken arm, they said, because he beat on the crib walls to get any kind of attention he could, unceasingly, never giving up hope that someone would pay attention to him, having broken his arm before and seeing it gave him temporary attention.

They also said he was unadoptable because he was so far along in his formative years he was unlikely to appear and act normal enough to appeal to a young couple looking to raise a child of their own.

By now, that child is an adult, if he is still alive.

Does he still have hope?

What does he do?

Did he ever learn a useful communication system such as a formal, common language with which he can express himself to others?

If not, what goes through his thoughts?

What is his physical/emotional support system?

Does he understand the concept of having a reason to live?

Keep anyone, any living thing, in a cage long enough and normality is such a skewed condition compared to the rest of the world that making comparisons is unuseful.

How am I like that boy?  What walls hold me in but also provide a protection against my own naive actions in the bigger world?  What do I perceive as normal that is far from normal to most of the rest of our species or to large subcultures or even to the local, smaller subcultures around me?

Morning meditation time is over.  It’s after 8 a.m.  Time to work on my business plan, such that it is.