I have been counting my toes waiting, it seems, for something to happen. Always on my back.
To be transparent, I don't know what I am waiting for but the elements of the unknown are clear.
My brain is one. Time another. A third would be death - or a finale - and a fourth is definitely the past in front of me.
Some cultures gesture forward or to what is in front of them when referring to the past. And when referring to the future, the motion to behind them. The idea is one can see the past, it has happened and it fills our entire visual horizon. The future is unknown and creeps up on us.
The past is always an element in whatever I do or think about, as I can never look at anything else.
But I try anyway.
I have to really close my eyes. Real hard. And squeeze my toes together into the balls of my feet. I also have to press my lips together like a sick child who doesn't want his medicine.
I have to do this to distraction.
Should the expected occur – and it happens as if by accident - every bias, prejudice and preconception will become irrelevant and I become like newborn.
If this works I may let out a cry.
To become such a state is difficult, yes, and also extremely lonely. I do not know myself when reset like that – with shut eyes - but I imagine my face pulls and quivers on the edge of boundless sanity caverns. Fall into one and I may be lost. But it is also exhilarating beyond verbal retelling or physical simulation. That’s the nudge.
Once here one can enjoy the freedom of a dimension without rules. No ups or downs or ins and outs. No naked associations.
And here one idea comes into focus. It begins at my fingers and ends at my back. It travels forward for an infinity and around, twirling and popping like blonde curls and bubblegum. The idea will become itself, a visual facsimile of what it represents. A plateau. A salty plane. A sphere whose surface ebbs with the convulsions of life and unity.
And staring at the ceiling, I see it is attached to the walls and then to the floor. I see that, or am aware that, I am in a cube on a cube. Through rectangles I see a continuation of everything into columns and spheres.
What strikes me then would break my mind and alter my character permanently if only I could actually believe it. Instead I just muse upon the notion and grieve that, if even true, I could never accept it as the truth. I could never consider myself to be less than an individual.
What I fantasise is that all is one or part of one being, from Utah to Pluto to the edge of the Universe to the end of time. We are all not separate humans but a collective of like-shaped elements in a greater unit, like bacteria in our stomachs. We are little nothings on a cosmic scale, of which the cosmos itself is our equals. We – a general we embracing all atoms – serve the greater everything or complete one. Or God.
Looking at the ceiling, I see that if I could open my mind to this idea, I could fold my home like paper and move people about with ease as if they were chess pieces. I could only do what my imagination fancies and possibly more. I could remove time as a linear force and cough fairies and box angels. I could play billiards with far away galaxies from gaze of my bathroom mirror.
But I would have to believe this idea. I need a reason to believe. Without one I remain myself, an individual with the reach of one arm length and the constitution of a man twice his age. A train stuck to its track.