"When you're born, you are like a single drop of water, flying upward, separated from the one, giant consciousness. You get older, you descend back down. You die. You land back into the water, become one with the ocean again."
No matter how far I attempt to walk from the philosophy of our wave, our collective consciousness, it is there again. Perhaps I read into coincidence, but I am eager because it means connecting to you. Sitting with you. Feeling the very vivid presence of our entanglement as the weight of this mortal life lightens at the mere thought of you. At the hope that quantum physics does contain some semblance of a forever for you and I.
The idea that I should go and this is an end is too heavy a burden to carry. And this is especially true as I consider my children and Tim. Arvo and Moo and Skylar. My brothers. My parents.
Which brings me, of course, to the singularity. Now that we spoke about it, I see it in every precious and still moment. I see it in Anya's uncontrollable laughter and the perpetual wild antics that push bed time by a half hour every night. I see it in the dawn hours when I take the dogs out walking and the first hint of tulips emerges from the ground and in the late night texts with friends who live desperately far from me. I shall not get a moment of this precious life back and when even the mundane is viewed as a singularity, it can be filled with a brilliant ferocity. The necessity to be fully present doesn't just mildly knock, it screams. Be here now. See what exists in front of you. Do not wish even a moment away. It is all so very fleeting.
And as time passes, I can't help but marvel at my own personal change. I cannot help but whisper hopefully that time will not ruin me. I do not want to become too heavily a skeptic or a pessimist. I do not want the onslaught of years to take away the vibrancy of the summer dew or the wild variability of each uncertain sunset. I do not want to distrust the people around me and I do not want to stop greeting each person as a personal treasure chest of story I can perhaps live vicariously through. I never want to feel I am an expert in anything or assume I know more than those around me.
I want to dig for some semblance of the truth in every waking moment and be constantly floored in the marvels of the universe. I want to find new and more people to love and pursue those friends with utter abandon. I do not want hope and excitement to be limited to days without the drudgery of adulthood, to moments when I finally allow myself to breathe. This day is a singularity. This moment, too. This life, even if I should drop back into that giant ocean, will only happen once in exactly this way.
I still do not know why we are here, but I do know that in the moments I have, I want to truly embark on a life. One which is full of equal parts joy and equal parts pain. I do not want to shy away from the heartache of loss and disappointment. I do not want a shell of a life, though the safety provided whispers seductively in my ear. In the short time I have, I want blissful chaos. I want my life to expand beyond the cave in which it sits. I want to know all the things I have yet to learn about love, about sorrow, about companionship, loyalty, courageousness, and grief.
I want, in this middle stage in which I sit, to feel that many things have only just begun to unfurl and that some portion of who I am is in its infancy. And, I suppose, if every moment is a singularity, then there is the chance to create something new with every breath, every admission, and every introduction.
And after forty years, I suppose the opportunity to start tomorrow is indeed too generous a gift - one I intend to approach with all the courage a heart which has been previously wounded can muster. And, as a result of those scars, with a richness and depth I was incapable of twenty years ago.
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