What is reality? I mean, really? Is there a single reality or are there many? Must we navigate many worlds in the space of a single day? What would happen if we slipped, took a wrong turn, got lost? How can so many people agree about experiencing a thing that never was? What happens in the spaces between that primes us to be receptive to certain ideas over others? Who are we when our cards are laid out on the table, when sleep takes us or the anesthesia kicks in?
Many of us recall what we were told as children, what we may tell our own children as their eyes dart to the imposing shadow in the corner of the room: there is nothing hiding in the dark. What if there is? What light can dispel that dark, and is a different light needed when the dark is within us?
I have long held that the spaces between define life. The destination is secondary to our lived experiences of the journey. I am not interested in mountains, but in the tectonic forces that make them. I see my writing as a tremor beneath the earth, and as the valleys themselves. Valleys that connect the highest of mountain peaks.
My intention is always connection. I hope that my thoughts flow like the seas that connect disparate ports. That you read my words and think of veins - obedient emissaries that carry oxygenated blood to the heart of the thing. I will always strive to beat out a tattoo and rest in the knowledge that maybe I have been heard, felt, measured somehow.
I am systole and diastole…over and over and over again.
We are all summaries of the paths we’ve wandered, the roads we’ve traversed, the nights we’ve slept or obsessed, the hours we’ve idled away, the journeys we’ve undertaken.
It isn’t important where we start out. And it isn’t important where we wind up. All we have is the moment. The space of a single breath. The present has a way of giving us the best gift of all-the truth.