The problem with thinking is that 99.7% of it is not true.
And there’s a certain delight to an argument in your mind, but it’s ephemeral.
There are no teams, no sides, and resolution is futile, because there is only one truth.
What is, is a fist-sized brown and black bird picking grass seed from a lawn.
At least for now.
And a snail on the rail of a container garden.
Buzzing wings of a hummingbird.
What is, is.
There’s that 0.3%.
The rest is chatter for the sake of some twisted entertainment.
What’s amazing, perhaps the most awe-inducing thing going, is that there’s enough agreement on thinking that things are done in coordination.
The 99.7% mind can settle on physics and money, and put other minds and muscles together to build a freeway.
To measure wood planks and build a container garden.
To concur enough.
But at any given moment what is is small.
What’s true is miniscule to man but so damn large in fact.
It’s a momentary truth that starts at the edges of your face – your cheek bones and your temples – and blasts out to the limitless boundaries of distant galaxies.
And it returns to a very obvious scene that’s right in front of you.
Without window dressing.
Without your thoughts, your opinions and your predilections.
It’s here, but you’ll prefer some fantasy in your head about justice, injustice, what kind of meal might come next, if the woman will say yes, if the president is wrong, if some concocted miracle might some day replace the miracle that’s already here now.
