"The Impossible often has a kind of integrity which the merely improbable lacks." Douglas Adams, English writer and humorist (1952-2001).
There's nothing like a good quote. College students (females, predominantly) are always scribbling down inspirational phrases, gaping and gawking at clever terminology, and utilizing those sweet moments which bridge the gap between illusory musings and sensibility to create a Post-it note, journalistic haven.
My friend recently bought a Polaroid camera, and lo and behold, preceding the first round of film, this tiny black card popped out with the words, "The impossible often has a kind of integrity which the merely improbable lacks." An alliteration fit to make your Post-it note and Sharpie-frenzied mind go bonkers.
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As written, the "Impossible," is portrayed as a private, predominant entity in relation to the much reduced "merely improbable," presenting himself as a chivalrous knight in shining armor, of a certain integrity that the latter lacks. What the...?
When somebody tells me, "That is impossible," or "You are impossible," the phrase strums a romantic chord. My five-year-old self scoffed at the notion that anything at all could be unattainable. A vision tethered to some maximum that lends itself more possibility than impossibility. If that makes sense, hear me out. On the contrary, when I hear the words, "The likelihood of such an event happening is highly improbable," I immediately balk at this syntactical caging. The idea of calculated pessimism cloaked in improbability pummeling a fledgling success is morose and insincere.
Tell me what is impossible and I will garner the courage to prove you wrong. While yes, Impossibility may inevitably imply limitation, at least he has the respect to allow you to prove him wrong. He implies possibility. But he is no wolf in sheep's clothing. He is defined by his given name as being that which will most likely not happen, but you better give him a run for his money. He likes competition -- the chase. Thus, that impish preceding "im" facetiously mocks his very inverted nature. He gently sweeps his thumbs over the gilded harp in which you've hemmed your every dream.
Improbability shuts you down immediately. He is the microscope, the metal tongs ready to pinch and poke because he has mathematics and science breathing down his back. He manically screams, "Down with the arts!" and positions practicality in your face, unleashing it like a foaming-at-the-mouth Pit Bull armed and ready to bite you in the face. His harsh, vile laugh extracts enjoyment from the cutting of nylon cords, one by one, that make up the veins of your aspirations.
I would rather befriend the Impossible. He answers you honestly, plain faced and never greedy. He cares not for facts, because facts do not factor into his chemical makeup. He is the liquid, gaseous, mental, hidden being that we will never know, which we can only grasp at in our ontological investigation. He grins, he befriends.
The impossible soars where the improbable types rhythmically on a well-oiled typewriter. The Impossible faces his blinking blue eyes towards the sun, where the Improbable squints behind thick rimmed glasses, increasing the chance for wrinkles in the future.
Ultimately, impossible is possible. When we were five we sure as hell thought so.
