A physicist learning to write.
I wrote a book! $10 and it's yours.
I want to eat from my writing. I feed it , so it can feed me.
What do you call it when you make the wrong choice? Clear headed, low pressure, reasonably informed and still choose incorrectly. You’ve made the inefficient choice or the unethical one. The one that hurts. The one where when you retell it is so painfully obvious you want to cushion it with some kind of detail.
Dreams belong to me. They are my story, my experiences. Bound by rules only I can attempt to understand. Memories belong to us. We are shaped by them, we shape the ones to come. We experience them over and over again. In glee and delight. Sweeter with time and more profound with age. Memories ripen under our shared gaze. Context fading and pleasure rising. Context is the cage that restricts. It limits, restrains the glee. The less of it we have the more fantastic the memory, the more ecstasy we allow the memory to drown us in. When we remember, we dream together.
I hate cowards. I hate to see cowardice absorb the mind and body of someone capable of accomplishment, far less excellence. What a waste, what a bitter disappointment; a receptacle for genius, a conduit for the ineffable excellence choosing to channel frailty instead.
Sometimes I remind myself to listen. When there’s silence, just listen. Listen to the grass growing up trying to brush the sky with its fingertips, to the concrete straining to hold us together, to us trying to be both grass and concrete. If I take a moment I can hear it all. My mind finally in tune to all the things my ears so diligently deliver.