This is.  Mess?  We have withstood more.  We have withstood enough.  Too many items amiss or out of order, if only the order from above coincides with order from below, or from the left, right, east, west, north, south, whichever label comes of the moment and all the records from yesteryears.  Studious all our work has been.  Yet, when by increments history has been built and written, our internetworks have loaded with the thoughts of more than a few billions.  Today we are faced with a new kind of challenge.  Yesterday we imagined we would go through the annals byte by byte, and through studying while recording we shall come upon a new verge.  Upon this frontier we now all stand.  Looking back there is little fantasy left of how little work faces us as the day's challenge.  For years, we have stepped forward, realizing the frontier by each moment.  Every leap feels like a tiny step.  And not amidst gold, but upon alphanumericals that spin in all different colors, sometimes even with a neon glow.  How should we sort through all these precious records and mundane lists alike?  On this topic we must dwell a little now.

In all times previous, history was made in the castles and scholar's study, when each alphabet could be contemplated upon in each exercise of the scribe.  History was made in increments that span a century, while today history is made not only in the writing and the making of each and every logic, design, and technology alike, it is made too in each and every mind democratically inclined.  

For within each of our mind is a vision and a memory.  The vision is of tomorrow, of five years tomorrow, and of retirement in the beach house.  It is each our own, but in our hearts we remember something elusive, something hidden, something by the name of I Am American.  Who remembers beyond yesterday's grocery list?  Everybody.  Everybody remembers his or her parents' middle name and maiden name, the high school's name, the face of the guard at the door, the face of their high school sweetheart, the cost of the coffee at Starbucks, which key is the mail key, the cost of toll across the bridge, yesterday morning's weather, and so on.  Then there is the face of the American flag.

What are these stars that spangle the banner?  Who still remembers the memory of the roads paved with a million stars.  In the snow they glitter - the snow was over lands not by concrete but by top soils never touched.  The snow fell last night, but they too fell two hundred years ago.  They fell soft some nights, and heavy like a downpour of a blanket on others.  There was barely any public light except that twilight that falls angelic upon these lands that shall be forever free.  The stars were everywhere: not just from above where the dark firmament was dotted by billions and billions, but upon the snow that would one day be orange pink and yellow was the dream that erected this never falling flag.  The dream spread silently like the message carried by a million messenger pigeons.  When word came that now we shall lay down a concrete road, this after the fact of stars being discovered over millions of miles of dirt roads, then too in the concrete is sprinkled a billion stars.

This concrete paving we now call ground.  As we rush from our day to day, we cannot but find amiss something.  What could it be?  What could possibly be the reason that at the back of our mind screams here I am still and here is the world my forebearers devised.  In the midst of the rush sometimes the memory slips that it is the house of my ancestry I live within.  By the blood and sweat, and yes, upon conflict ultimately won out by peace, does this house now stand.

In discoveries like these, which now today so easily do we ascribe to those persons we hold upon a pedestal though correctly so there they shall be beheld, were meant for each of us, every single last citizen of this great state.  These are our stars, and in each of them are inscribed a million memories left to us by our Great Great Aunt Bertha.  One was told while you were in the womb, another over breakfast when you spilled your milk.  So many more that were lost when you drifted off on the bus wondering how best to mend the relationship with your ex and things like that.  

To make a new discovery is not always consisting in inventing something so extraordinary as to knock your wife's socks off.  But sometimes it is.  There is a clue to this problem blocking the easy path locked with a padlock only you can open in the depths of your mind.  The Clue is always the secret, sometimes a secret even to yourself, when a problem is mysteriously solved.  Search for that clue.  Whatever your profession, I think it is highly likely that there is a non-set of problems associated of improving the good of the country and perhaps even resolving the bad spotting the country.  Be brave, and behold those problems in solitude and seek that clue that appears especially in the hours of quietude and solitude.  Upon that clue you shall find a process to search in the annals represented at your library and your smart phone.  If a solution is found, seek that forum formal or casual where to advance your ideas.  In time when we all have rediscover that childlike wonder of discovering solutions to problems everyday and great, we shall talk and discover the way forward is still the one we seek the future together.  We shall seek tomorrow on this green earth of the galaxy, in the house of a billion stars below our feet and above, and across the gossamer network lit with a thousand suns, albeit usually tiny and hidden in the wires, for tomorrow shall rise at the precise time forecasted by your local meteorologist, exactly as we planned.