There is a magic to it all. Some unnamed connection between the details of every day and one. Some pull toward a city or repulsion from. Energy and exhaustion. And yes, even love.
But let's not shout about knowing.
Let's not lean in to italicize the greatness of our truth.
Let's not give it names or dogmas or presume to know the facts of an abstract.
Let's not.
Why would we?
"Even with all we understand about the world, there are still things that cannot be explained by science."
Why presume humans are capable of understanding everything about everything? Isn't that the height of hubris? We humans, self-crowned animals that, evolutionary speaking, are barely a blip on the radar. Like America in regards to history. Barely an etch on the timeline but certain it must be the pinnacle. Vanity cloaked in virtue. I will not.
Some people are not so much the marrying type. They just know, privately or together, until they don't or until forever.
The identity of an artist got all muddled in talk about instruments and motives and just knowing. Trying to measure different states of matter on a solid scale. The words words words kept on and kept clashing. And all along we mean the same thing. What matters most, motive or material?
Depends on where you live.
On the way home I watch 42 grams (42 grams being the supposed weight of two souls yaddyaddy). Husband and wife team who give up everything to pursue their dream and achieve wild success in the Michelin world of art. What emotion! Passion! Purpose and meaning!
A closing black screen noted their divorce less than two years later.
When asked recently to name a current obsession, I came up blank. Truly blank.
You know, I quite prefer it.
