Through the Glass Darkly

Sfumato. The clouded glass. Mist filled air.

I look back on experiences I've had and think how little I really remember. I don't remember the colors of rooms, the heights of ceilings, the floor of marble or tile, who was standing in the corner at the time, what time it was.

Unconsciousness is so powerful and is ever present, attempting to impose itself onto the everyday reality I've lived.

How much of my life has been lived mindlessly, carelessly, my consciousness picking and choosing what I will see, feel, touch taste and hear.

If my life up to this point were a storybook, it would be filled with sunny days yet also cloudy, moonless nights.

And it's disconcerting how something completely ignored at the time was registered on some level and comes blaring back to consciousness with the full force of the breaking wave in the ocean.

I am tacitly aware that the compromise between this play between what was experienced and what is remembered, what is present and what is perceived, is something that is very terrible, very subtle but at most is beautiful.

Just enough mystery not misery to keep the whole thing going.