Heaven is a truck

You ever have an impossible feeling?

Like, this bit of pressure-- a surge or a pulse in the brain or the heart against the skull or ribcage when something that so desperately wants resolution can't possibly find it? A tic in every happy thought, a clause that despite your best intentions the thing you're after is just outside the realm of possibility?

Someone talk to me about reality.

About the fact that you'll never see me the way I see me. And maybe that's the best thing. That there are infinite incarnations of a personality that ebb and flux with the subjectivity of perception. Or about how when I say, "hey"-- you hear, "I'm judging," and what I really mean is "I love you. I would like nothing better than to love you." Because there isn't a truth we're working towards. Not in this lifetime. No collective can reach a universal truth, an objective conclusion about a personality or a sentiment or a sound or a feeling. We all move in different orbits, see things in slightly different shades. And the magical thing about that, about the 21st century human condition, is that none of us can possibly be wrong.

But then there are moments. Occasions of incredible consequence and potential in which whatever is going on up there suspends momentarily and allows a fleeting clarity. I don't what people call this-- but I think it friendship. And that there are people in this world I can share this with, I mean, it really qualifies everything, you know? It's the rarity that brings about the doubt and dark.

I wrote some poems today.

Had a conversation with a non-English speaking Italian poet about how we have simultaneous timelines, each of us. At any given moment, besides the "reality" I'm living in, I'm playing through thousands upon thousands of parallel, equally plausible, existences. There's a temporal thing that happens when we think like this, when we leave earth for split seconds to explore the universe like it can't be seen here, now. I enjoy the escape, the search,

the knowledge that I will come to no conclusion. I am, we are, Joycian. The lifetime of no 21st century intellect or poet or scholar will result in any conclusion beyond that we aren't quite there yet. There's a lot of ground for humanity to cover before the period of self-realization, before we as Arhants walk together. But of you, reader, I'll see you when we get there. The universe has a funny way of carrying the one.

Someone, please, let's talk about reality.