So much in my head.
As I predicted months ago, new life means new thoughts.
New life also means less time.
There are more thoughts in my head than I have time to think about. To write out. To acknowledge. To make matter.
I’m stuck in my own world, in my own head, pondering. Feeling. Watching. Hoping.
Caught in this moment. This brief moment. Of all time. Of all existence.
My baby’s growing. I’m getting older. Years will pass. What is modern becomes what is outdated.
Everyone who came before me: I will soon be like you.
Everyone who comes after me: You will soon be like me.
KP and I went to see Dunkirk last night. Watching it made me feel ashamed. Ashamed of being alive, right there in that moment, in that theater, looking over those heads at that huge screen before me, watching a portrayal of life and death in a moment that came before me. Watching. Entertainment. I was safe. I am safe.
What a privilege.
Our deepest instinct.
Yet we will all die. Death is guaranteed.
Each of us the tiniest blip on the timeline of all existence.
Even that which our minds cannot fathom.
There’s so much. And we know so little.
3 weeks ago, a shelf fell on my head. A trip to urgent care, a decent sized scar, a half numb scalp, and a new strange fascination with understanding the dimensions of spacetime. Other than that, all is well. I hope. The spacetime thing is a little weird. But I’m going with it.
Our brains are fascinating. Our bodies are fascinating. I think, in another timeline, I could’ve been a doctor. I‘m in awe of the physical complexity that makes each of us who we are, and I get the allure of wanting to master these systems of interconnectedness.
We’re here but a moment. Blink and it’s gone.
New life comes into the world and old life goes out.
You, me, everyone I see. For all our differences, we’re exactly the same.
Who can know the impact each of us will have? Some lives affect much. Some lives affect little.
We have such little control.
Yet in spite of it all, in the unfairness of life doomed to death, in the irreplaceability of time constantly fleeing, in the powerlessness to control our significance, in the limitation of what we can know in spite of the vastness of all there is…somehow, underlying it all, regardless if we curse or praise its immutability – I get a sense that there’s a direction, and even a kind of beauty, to it all.
A beauty I can only hope I someday understand more fully.