A Series of Bubbles

I think more and more about reality, in all its incarnations and levels, as a series of bubbles.

Two teenagers hop into a rusted out clunker of a car and crank up a stereo worth more than the value of the rest of the car. While they ride, feet up on the dashboard, rhythm mimicked on the steering wheel, they exist in a bubble. As soon as the ride ends, or the lights of a cop car flash, or a parent calls wondering where they are and when they will be home, the bubble pops.

Three roommates live in a 12 by 12 room at college. They each had different classes during the day. They each come from a different place. The lights went out hours ago and they have been laying in the darkness spouting truths, and lies, and bullshit, and questions, until all three fall asleep, or the sun comes up, or the fire alarm, or a knock on the door.

With writing, with cycling, designing, editing, running, a puppy on your chest, a baby in your arms. You see a stranger across the foyer and find you are on the same elevator. For fourteen floors there is an awkward and magic tension, a thin film of possibility. At the door at the end of a really good first date. In that one meeting you’ve had all year that was actually productive. We hash out our laws and our limitations, feel the touch of the muse, the possibility of insight, come face to face with the nascent.

Even our earth, even our universe, born of a single utterance or dimension, expanding in all directions, until something breaks the skin, until a tear in space-time. The multiverse possibility that we are floating along the tough skin of another reality, and another, and another, like bubble bath. Unreplicateable moments, nested each inside each, inclusive of everything necessary, separated gladly from the bubbles outside.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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