A gyroscope is a mechanism where the centerpiece, usually a wheel or disc, maintains the same upright position while the outer rings maintain a constant momentum to continue their spherical orbit around the device's core. The chaos of all the intricate parts of the gyroscope establish the idea that no matter the amount of pressure imposed on the center by the outer layers, the center simply will not shift. It holds. It is not an illusion. The motion of the outer rings is altered by the force of the core axis. With enough energy, the core may sustain the movement of all parts. It just keeps on spinning. Unending, uninterrupted.

(photo from gvcmanagement.com)

Like a nucleus housing protons while the electrons fly and crash around it, the status of the core does not naturally change. No matter how fast or slow the external forces revolve around it. Again, the structure spins, but the base remains unaffected, the gravity-driven motor keeping the gyroscope alive.

Let's review the metaphor. The core is the individual. Anyone and everyone. You. Them. Me, for the sake of the narrative. The external forces -- the outside layers of the gyroscope -- spin and wobble and, at times for the splitest of seconds, all connect to coincide with another. The chaos and fluidity of circumstances lie outside our realm of control. They move while we -- the core -- stand still. They work around us while we, unknowingly, go about our days unaware of their influence.

What I really wanted to talk about is stability. Economic stability. Personal finances preventing the winds of external forces -- the economy, health, poverty, famine, war -- from blowing your house down. They're the puppet strings life tugs away at, forcing knee jerk reactions out of the people of the world.

I hate to say it, but money does rule the world. If you have it, usually too much of it, you ascend to the throne of Mount Olympus, capable of buying the world 10 times over and re-designing it in your image. Billboards, skyscrapers, theme parks, all advertisements of the aged generation of American billionaires.

If you have none, or not enough to buy your world back, you are the Titan Atlas whose shoulders are crushed from bearing the weight of the world. Destroyed by the very thing he created. Daring not to shift his weight, let alone shrug. Corporations would be reduced to nothing without the support of their blue collared craftsmen.

Atlas, despite his eternal prison sentence, is strong and was once as mighty as Zeus, the usurper of the "kingdom of the immortals." There was a time when being the gears of the corporate machine all hummed and clicked in unison and were compensated considerably for their effort. Empires were created off profit. Or was it for the good of the people. Depends on which history book you read. Probably both. But, times have changed.

Both my parents grew up in Brooklyn. My father's father died of cancer in 1955, a week before my father turned three. My father is the second youngest of seven. They all worked from young ages, starting with paper routes moving onto full-time jobs. My father went to college off of an academic scholarship, when the dollar was strong and college is relatively nothing compared to its costs today. He was the among the top of his graduating high school class. Whenever I ask him, my father would consider his social status during his upbringing as "poor." A real success story: working for everything and finding yourself starting a family and settling into a New Jersey suburb.

My mother's father was a police officer. He walked a beat, earning the title of "Duke" from chatting up Brooklyn Dodger Duke Snyder when he worked security in the tunnels of baseball stadiums. I never got to know him, either. Or both my grandfathers for that matter. From the snippets of life back then that my aunt and uncle offer, they were happy without disruption. My grandfather saved for the sake of his children and grandchildren.

My father is an insurance underwriter. My mother, before her passing in 2001, was a physical therapist specializing in children with special needs. They were professionals. As white collar as professions can get: one commuting into a Manhattan office building and the other a physician of sorts. There are no real complaints to be had in the way I, my older brother, and sister grew up.

I grew up financially stable. Neither a humble brag or a character building trait. It is just a fact at this point in my life. An unfortunate fact giving me an incredible advantage in the world. College was never a gated community, always an open opportunity free of financial burden. On my 17th birthday, I got the keys to my first car; my savings paid for half. And, I have a savings account set aside for me by my parents for my future. You'd be surprised to learn how many people do not have these options granted to them. Because they are almost considered luxuries. And I am fortunate to have them.

Blinders go up when we are expectant of the rest of the world to be like the bubble we inhabit: our worlds. Molded by personal experiences, relationships, and interaction with communities of separate thought, the small picture of our white picket fenced lawns stretch out to something bigger. Think global. We think using only what we know, so, of course, people are going to base their judgment of the rest of the world off their own lives.

For me, my father is very liberal, in the literal sense of the word: open minded. His youth missing out on the psychedelic '60s, my father is a hippie at heart. By no means an obsessed social justice warrior, my father's bleeding heart comments on politicians' unwillingness to commit to social reform with the intention to actually help the economically disadvantaged. Growing up in a different time, on a different rung of the social fire escape, he knows what it is like to be near the bottom, staring up at the top. He may not have grown up in total squalor, but my father is still a world away from where his family stood in a social hierarchy. He knows how far he has come and I know he has always wanted for us to appreciate how fortunate we are, living a lifestyle where luxuries to some are commodities to us.

From what I have seen, a portion of my hometown's residents possess a similar financial background similar to my own. Maybe this is based off of a generalization, maybe I have not seen enough of my hometown. But, income undeniably varies depending on which section of the town you are in. My father estimates some members of the community to be near the nation's top 15 percent in terms of wealth and income. True or not, the mansions keeping Bon Jovi's company, overlooking the Navesink River, definitely have to be taken into consideration. Bruce Springsteen, Kevin Smith, and Jon Stewart have been known to frequent the area, too, dropping by the local record, comic book or ice cream shop.

I never went hungry. Only when I forgot to eat or my favorite food was missing from my full pantry. Too lazy to cook I gorge myself on sugary or salty snacks. Fridge always stocked. Eating out is an option, too.

But that does not mean I block out the people who do go hungry in my mind. In the cities, on the streets, under the bridges, oceans away, in other countries, other continents, their worlds still "developing." And we're still developing a way to cure their roaring stomachs. Not soon enough.

I have the security of insurance. Physicals inside doctors' professional buildings are yearly. My dad has a list of doctors he can recommend me to. I got tested for allergies once. Eyes checked, back curve measured, teeth cleaned. I even have a guy I go to for my feet. Hospitals are an option in case of an emergency.

But I acknowledge the plight of this great nation's health care system: it is cracked. Broken. In need of repair. Tear it down and build it up. Radical wording, but whatever leaves millions uninsured and fair game for the insurance companies is no aspect of a federal government I want to support. Sickness transforms into disease, injury escalates to debilitation. If I get hurt, I have a policy keeping the situation from worsening. Medicine and treatment help me get better: it is a re-do button back to the way I was. Not the case for most. Sometimes they do not get a re-do. It might cost them everything.

I do not know what it means to live paycheck-to-paycheck. I save my money up. Rarely spending it. Biding my time for the next useless thing I need to be a part or feel the urge to buy to come out on the market. Running shoes, concert tickets, materials bought with a plastic card with numbers on it.

But that does not mean I ignore other people need this money more. Deserve it? Debatable, but in the humane eye that no one should live in poverty, they need it. What use are running shoes anyhow when the bills are the things you have to run from? And then after all that, is there enough to provide for you, your partner, your family?

I always had a home. Kept me warm in the winter months and too warm during the summer seasons. I shivered but only when the thermostat was not turned up high enough. Storms cut down the power lines and blizzards blanketed the streets with white. There was no television or Internet to access and my family had to shovel out the driveway. But we still had a home to keep us safe from the wrath of nature.

But that does not mean my gaze glides over the people on the streets. The beggars, the property impaired, the "homeless" we all so truthfully label them. Some trick passersby for donations they do not need, others are too far gone in their downward path of mental obliteration. But, if one can train the eye to find those deserving of care, there are the people who truly deserve the attention, a couple of bucks, or maybe a granola bar if you bring one next time. These are the people enduring the elements, huddled in dry corners to avoid sideways rainstorms, crackling lightning, and bombarding snow. No one should ever have to beg for survival or live in conditions not even our pets would be exposed to.

The small pocket of the world I have been exposed to does not resemble Flint, Michigan. Aside from a minor water crisis resolving itself in days, Flint is not a reality for the denizens of Middletown. That could be New Jersey, New York, or Connecticut. They're all staples of EveryTown, USA. Population: The Ideal. A paradise of this earth compared to the crumbling small towns of America, and a cosmic Nirvana envisioned by those caught in the crossfire in oversea regions of conflict.

The only "dirty" politicians Middletown has to worry about are who is elected to the Board of Education and if the mayor will raise property taxes. Chris Christie may be something, but at least he never poisoned New Jersey's drinking water.

One of my best friends bought an Apple Watch. He sells sunglasses for a living, expensive accessories for the white collar. My "Apple Watch" was a Bruce Springsteen ticket for this year. I ride a bus for a living, evaluating the drivers -- essentially blue collar --to assure management these teamsters abide by the rules. I am an agent of the white collar.

Tastes lean towards expensive at times for the two of us. An admittance most can relate to: splurges on things we are truly passionate about. "It's more for the experience" is one way of justifying the overpriced music festival passes on your bank statement. It is these brand tastes I hate myself for buying into. Not only do I subscribe to a materialistic lifestyle I do not believe in, but I submit myself to an addiction of designer goods, flyknit shoes, and wannabe bomber jackets from Modern Amusement. A pathetic addiction, if I do say so myself.

I end up looking like a catalog torn from Nike and PacSun webpages. Too ashamed to read the price tags out loud. There are much worse things someone can be ashamed of. I dress like something I am not in the hopes of waking up and being it someday. Is the content of my character compromised by how much I spend to dress a certain style? Materialism makes consumers think naught.

A horrifying question is how can I expect to connect with someone, let alone help them, if I cannot relate to them, particularly their personal priorities?

Maslow's hierarchy of needs lays the foundations for a system of priorities based off human behavior. The sooner a need is fulfilled, one climbs up the hierarchy. Bottom to top, the pyramid reads: Physiology (Physical Survival Needs), Safety (and Security), Love/Belonging (Social Needs), Self-Esteem, Self-Actualization.

(photo from studioguys.com)

Fed, clothed, sheltered, all with a family, I skipped past the first few steps of Maslow's pyramid.The intangibles -- personal connection, love, measures of personal achievement, emotional stability, fulfillment/pursuit of dreams -- were my main focuses of self-assessment. Survival and safety never even occurred to me. I am a product of my environment. I cannot tell if the prestige of my community warrants the credit for my progress, or if I am too cut off from the physiological and safety needs of people below me in the contemporary social hierarchy.

When survival is no longer an issue, a sinful life becomes pertinent to existence. Gluttony and Sloth whittle life down to a sad pair of basics: eating and sleeping. Overeating and oversleeping feasts on the accomplishments of the self, while greed dulls sensitivity, both imploding the self, forcing the individual to rely and trust only themself. Lust calls for more, addicted to the desire of more than anyone should have. Envy accompanies lust, responding with an uncalled for jealousy of what other people have. Wrath tops it all off: the rage of all these feelings coming so naturally when basic survival is fulfilled, but failing to satisfy by filling the void.

Within this inability to relate to basic survival lies the reason why so many social issues in American society have failed to be resolved. Relating to the lower or working class does not fit in with the lifestyles of politicians or bureaucrats. Their working hours are spent filling out paperwork or campaigning. Governors settle into mansions after election, Congressmen fill Washington to work in cushy offices and landmarked buildings. Uncle Sam foots elected officials' bills when they are in office. They cannot act like they have been there because more likely than not, they have not been there before. Downthere with them. The real people.

My own disconnect, my inability to know how to make a difference, or the confusion of where my character is trying to guide me, drives me insane. Droves of people suffer every waking second. Drugs, gun/gang violence, lack of aid, ailing veterans of war, the impoverished, refugees, all the speaking points touched upon during a presidential debate.

I know they are all there. I hope you know they are there. And I hate their existence-- the presence signifying there is a problem, not the people. And I know something should be done. And I know there needs to be a solution to the perpetual socio-economic problems handed off from generation to generation, election to election, party to party, class to class.

Whatever my parents imparted to me during my childhood seemed to have burrowed its way inside me. Yet, I cannot realize it. I still feel a disconnect. My motives begin to collapse. I cannot be a politician, a lawyer, a lobbyist. One does not get things done, the other needs a law degree, and the last guy is thrown into the same category of men who represent Big Tobacco.

I find it easier to tap away at a keyboard. Let the words hold the meaning. Not the editor. I find it easier to lose sleep over these issues while tapping away at a keyboard. Yet, I do not normally lose sleep over them. I would like to. It shows a devotion. Let me know if you do. I would like to hear that.