Dark but for the Embers

I don't know that you ever get the chance to know or see or set things right. All those orbs spinning out there. Independently. All those scenes playing themselves out with or without you. What you see. What you know. What you don't. You might pay closer attention to the bits that linger. You might close the book. You might get under the rug and see what keeps making it uneven just there. There's so much to attend to. And you can't be in all those places at once. In all those worlds. In all those scenes.

When I was a little girl, I used to imagine that things were happening on TV or in the movies that I couldn't see. When they cut away to a new scene, I imagined that something else was still going on in the scene we just left. Those players were still living out their destinies. The toys were all playing together when I left the room. I think the same thing about the times when I'm sleeping and some other portion of the world is alive and bustling. I think about it when I know that a party still happens even if I don't show up. All of this continuing. This going on. It happens with or without you. And you can only know what you choose to. Only hear what you listen for. Only see what lies in the direction you are facing, give or take a few obstructions. There's a tremendous sense of it all being out of your control. All that goes on that you cannot know or participate in or influence. All that happens and never touches you. All that you will never consider. The answers you won't think to look for. The questions you won't think to ask. Each day -- each choice -- is an exclusion. And it is the heart of a child that sulks to know that you can't do all of it all of the time and at once. It's a child who doesn't understand why you can't have everything you've ever wanted. It's a grown-up who knows that you can't have all that you have wanted because there just isn't space for keeping it.

The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had.