Discovering my own existence
There’s only one story I want to write. I read it just now, but it was in another language, a language different from this one.
I call it a story, but it’s not. I only imagine it as such because I am a writer. Perhaps it cannot be put into words. Perhaps it cannot be captured by any art form.
I was in the kitchen, making a smoothie. I reached into the jar to scoop out some protein powder, and there it was. My hand, my fingers, the scooper, the powder—all holding space, all being.
Being, yes. But how? Because it all actually was—objectively, independent of my observation? Or just because I could see it and feel it? Do not answer that question—there is no answer, just an endless rabbit hole of metaphysics.
That we are. That is it. But the words are not right.
That we are ... in a world such as this. I am not sure if I should be saying less or more.
That I am. Change ‘we’ to ‘I’ because I can’t speak for anyone else.
I am. Remove the ‘that’ because it seems superfluous.
But gah! Those words do not tell it. Perhaps I should be saying more.
When I reached into the jar, I was suddenly aware that I was in control of my fingers. Around me, there was more. The rest of it was like my fingers but different. I didn’t have control over the rest of it. It was all made up of the same stuff, but it wasn’t me.
The two—my body and the material world—can communicate, can dance. Each can cause a change in the other. I picked up the scooper by the handle, it raised in the air. I dipped the scooper into the powder, it filled.
It is all here! Around me, as I now sit at the table, writing. The chairs pushed in under the table, the candlesticks standing in the center of the table, the light coming in through the open doorway beyond the far side of the table.
I can see it! If I were to stand up from my seat, I could pick up one of the candlesticks. I could walk over and close the door. I could change it. I could change what I am seeing. I could block the light from my sight.
I see something, hear something. I am able to go to it, to see it in more detail. I can run away from a sound until there is silence.
Smells from a bakery. I could go there, open the door, taste the bread.
I wish to convey the marvel of it. How do we forget? Maybe it is not possible to survive in a constant state of such rapture.
I am not concerned with the actual, the facts, the science. I am concerned with the experience. Again, do not fall down the rabbit hole. Stand at the edge.
What are the words? For the moment when I discover my own existence. When the amazement of it strikes me, especially after I have forgotten for a while.
The tragedy is that it will not last forever. I will not live forever. I lift in the joy of finding it and then immediately fall in the fear of losing it.
I will die, but while I live, oh, what a playground. What a fortunate child I am!
If I had none of it, even a string would be the world. How I would enjoy that string. Twist it, tie it, ball it up, throw it, stretch it out, taste it, wrap it around my finger, and on and on, never bored by it.
But here, there is so much. Our capacity for awe is spread thin.
Maybe that is why the mornings are fresh and new. The darkness of sleep takes it all away. We get a glimpse of death to remind us to be happy for our lives. In this way, nightly rest prepares us for our final slumber.
But ah! I know I have not written it here. And I have to go soon. I will forget. But I will return. I must remember this is the only story I want to write. I do not know how long I will live, so I must write it soon.
Why must I write it? I don’t know. That is a question for another time. But if I am going to write, then this seems like the most worthy pursuit.
Perhaps, if I can write it, then others will be able to experience the awe that I now feel just by reading it. But I have not written it here. I will have to try again some other time.