The Exhale

April 9, 2020

I can almost imagine what it would feel like. The wood panels, dusty but strong, under my hands. The light, streaming in from wide windows. The rustle of leaves, the chatter of birds, the sounds of life equal parts isolating and welcoming.

To my mind, it would feel… like an exhale. A breath long held finally sighing out your lungs, the stagnant air dissipating in the breeze. Muscles tight from years of grit teeth, hunched shoulders, curled fists… simply giving way.

It would feel like peace.

There is a joy in simplicity. An over-stated, tired cliche, yet so often and so easily forgotten. There is a joy in the work of hands, in a day that ends with the setting of the sun, in solitude with companionship only when you choose.

It doesn’t sound like too much to ask for— peace, simplicity.

An artlessness that I have spent my whole life seeking.

I may not know, truly, what I want in the physical sense. In the “dreams” sense, the “ambitions” sense, the “capitalist-striving,” “career” sense.

But I know I want a life of easy breaths. Of days with work that will not shatter the earth in order to recreate it, but that will gently heal. Bring comfort and life anew. To a soul, any soul. It would be enough, I think. For me.

Disjointed thoughts seem to be the theme of late. Fragments of images and sensations and wishes, plucked from my mind in near stream-of-consciousness. I do not know how to make sense of it all yet. How to tie it all together into a coherent prose.

So I leave you with this last fragment, perhaps the clearest one so far:

If asked what I am working towards, I can only say: the exhale.

Re: Bad Brain Days, Tightropes, Perfectionism, and Progress

January 19, 2020

The best analogy I can come up with (that’s probably from somewhere else) for trying to make progress with something — in this instance, Parkour/movement in general — is that it feels like walking on a tightrope. There are the good days: when your balance is steady, your focus is sharp, and your steps are confident and well-paced. Then there are the bad days, days like the one I recently had, when it seems like a struggle just to stay on.

On this particular “Bad Training Day” or, perhaps more accurately, “Bad Mental Health Day,” nothing felt right. I was listless, fatigued, my brain mired in the kind of fog that even forced movement wasn’t dispelling. Nothing clicked. People around my training spots irked me, and I couldn’t seem to focus or find any sense of flow. It took forever for my muscles to warm, made harder by the cold weather and chill wind. I simply wandered from spot to spot, doing the littlest of bits, trying not to give in to the mounting frustration and self-flagellation that was ever-lurking in the back of my head about the waste of time and transportation money.

I am no stranger to days like these. Whether in Parkour or just life in general, I’ve always had “down-cycles” as I like to call them, in varying degrees of intensity. My whole life, I have struggled with the need to be perfect at everything, all the time, and so whenever my brain or body betrays me for whatever reason, the self-hate can mount to abhorrent levels.

Progress must be linear and constant or less it’s not progress. Everything must be done right the first time, or repeated ad nauseam — ignoring need for rest, food, basic human needs — until it’s something I’m happy with.

Except. I’m never happy with it, because nothing is ever enough.

Be Where You Are

However, on that cold, depressing, “lazy” Parkour day, I tried something different: Acceptance. I accepted that that’s just the kind of day I was having. Where I would once let the frustration give way to recklessness in an attempt to “push through,” I instead attempted to embrace the little I could do. Celebrate it, even. Why risk injury or burnout that takes you out of commission (and end up beating yourself up for THAT too)? Why not just be where you are?

A core tenet in the Parkour philosophy is “Etre et Durer.” It means “To be and to last.” While I always understood what it meant, I don’t think I truly embraced the practice of it until then.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t perfect. The temptation to rush across the tightrope as quickly as possible was ever-present. Despite, or in some self-destructive way almost because of, the knowledge that it would likely just lead to slipping off the line completely.

But I am trying to teach myself that I still matter even when I am not at my best.

Learning gentleness towards oneself, just as progress with anything else, is like walking on a tightrope. Some days, it’s steady-going. Other days, you’re just trying not to fall off. But if you can manage that, then you survive to try again, and again, and again.

Continuing to become. Going further. Lasting longer.

Etre et durer.

Starting Over.

December 17, 2019

It feels like I’ve spent my whole life starting from scratch. Dreaming and fantasizing about when I’ll be really, truly free in this discipline – Parkour – that I’ve been in love with since I was child. Dreaming and fantasizing about when I’ll have unbridled control over my body, through land and through air. Dreaming and fantasizing about the strength in my muscles, ready to be utilized whenever I need it.

Dreaming and fantasizing, but never getting anywhere far with it.

Having to keep starting over, because life – and my own self-sabotage – gets in the way. School. Work. My family’s restrictions. My own often-deteriorating mental health.

I thought I was doing better, this year. Not as well as I wanted, not as consistent, but definitely better than I had been in a while. Only to get knocked off course for over three months.

And now I’m starting over. Again. Weaker, heavier, and slower than I was. Having to play catch-up with what was already very little progress.

It felt good moving again, even with the still-tight hold of the stagnation that had seeped into my body. It felt good being outside, trying to recover some of what I’ve lost.

But I don’t want to have to do this anymore. I don’t want to have to be at this place again, three steps back from my one step forward.

It already feels like I’m too old. At 26, if I had just stuck to what I’ve always wanted to do – if I had ignored the noise from the outside world and inside my brain – I’d have had over a decade of experience under my belt. Instead, I’m a lousy beginner, and it feels like I’m so far behind everyone else.

So I am hoping, by finally starting this blog, by keeping myself accountable, by committing myself for good this time, I can start to progress significantly enough for it to matter.

My writing skills are rusty, but then again so is my movement, so I’m starting over in more ways than one.

Here’s to it being for the last time.

Through and Out Again

August 2, 2019

I didn’t mean to go back.

It had been years since I was even allowed to, years since the last close call that marked my decision not to return. Not that I was given a choice— the door had been closed to me ever since.

I don’t know what changed. But sure enough, while my team was deployed across the grounds and everything was set, I looked up to see the entrance tantalizingly ajar. A single air conditioning vent in my room, partially unscrewed, the shadows of stored objects making themselves known.

I was alone, still hooked to my comms, and not needed for the rest of the mission. I figured it would be a minor distraction at worst— at best, I was wrong, and it was no more than a tactically-sound exit from the room I was holed up in. So I climbed, taking little notice of the dust brushing onto my clothes, past an old necklace that looked familiar, dusted copies of books whose titles I did not recognize, paintings and posters from decades ago. I got to a place I could stand, eyes sweeping the attic-like room unsure of what to pick up first.

She would like this place. It’s perfect for exploring.

A step forward, however, and it was attic no more. I had gone too far, slipped back toward a world I did not think I would see again. Back into a role I did not understand, though I knew it would be dangerous to admit it.

I was dressed in a tux this time. The bay windows showed nighttime, and I could both see and hear the distant crashing of waves on the shore. With a wry smile, I thought of how funny it was that such a gorgeous property existed technically so close to our apartment with the thin walls and lack of space. For a colonial moment, I wondered if I could not bring my family here instead.

Then it started, and I remembered the reason why even I had vowed never to return. She walked in, older now, but still beautiful. Dark, wavy hair cascaded down her back, and her black dressed shimmered as she walked towards me. I was rooted to the spot in panic; it was too late to hide.

“There you are! You look nice. Are you ready to go?”

I nodded, wondering how on earth I was going to escape this time. “I just… need the bathroom a second.”

“…You aren’t going to disappear on me again are you?”

I laugh, trying to be casual as I walk toward what I hope is salvation. “No, no.”

She follows, clearly not believing me after last time. Right into the bathroom with me. Now this is just ridiculous.

I make a show of fixing my bow tie while she scrolls through her phone, leaning against the bathroom door. Sighing inwardly, I turn to her. “Shall we?”

Just as we emerge, someone else joins us. Him, I don’t remember, which only serves to worsen the situation. “So,” he drawls lazily, a drink he’d helped himself to already in hand. “Shall we?”

She clearly knows him, smiling and making idle conversation in a language I know I’m supposed to understand.

When I think they’ve lowered their guards down just enough, distracted as they are by each other, I do something that still shames me. I bolt.

No words of excuse, no stammering explanation, no waiting to wherever we’re supposed to be going. I just run out through the only open window onto the patio, leap across the board walk, and keep sprinting into the shopping mall ahead.

Panting, I finally use my comms. “I need an extraction, quickly.”

There’s no response, but just as I hit a sports clothing store on my left, a clerk calls out, “In here! Colored changing room!”

I don’t break my pace as I veer inside, rapidly drawing curtain after curtain to find the right changing room, confusing the hell out of the people hovering outside. There’s more than one fucking “colored” changing room.

Just as I think it, my luck shifts and I find the right one.


June 24, 2019

The palace would have been immaculate, if not for the bodies.

Gleaming marble floors, polished banisters, light spilling in from the few stained glass windows unobscured by thick curtains. It was beautiful.

But those damn statues of death everywhere…

I had been on excursions like this before. All of us had, as part of our training— a full tour of the sites of the old war.

But this place… This place was different.

Nowhere else could you still see the soldiers, frozen mid-battle. Nowhere else could you see the last of the rival royal families as they fought or fled, locked in the last move they ever made, the last breath they ever took.

The last of the vampires, cursed to a second death that wasn’t death.

It had been eons since the spell was cast, with a strength of magic never seen before or since. And to this day, no one has been able answer the questions of why, from where, by whom… and most importantly, for how long. Fear and superstition abound across the kingdom, many still believing the vampires would one day awaken.

The point of the visit was to dispel those myths, and see for ourselves what truly became of the titans of old. Walking amongst them, however, it was hard to hold on to the objectivity required of a historian. The stories I had been told growing up replayed unbidden in my mind, and while I usually shied away from superstition and fancy, I could not shake the unease that had wrapped itself around my heart from the moment we entered.

The vampires may have been cursed to stillness, but the stillness did not feel like the lifelessness of death… It felt like the crouch of a tiger, waiting to strike.

“What fools.”

…Clearly, I was the only one who felt this way.

“Quiet, Garrick. We still don’t know whether they can hear us.”

“I don’t care. It’s not like they can do anything about what we say. And they were idiots, fighting amongst one another like uncivilized rats rather than the superior race they claimed to be.”

With each word Garrick flung so carelessly, my panic rose.

“Garrick,” I hissed, eyes darting to the statues closest to us. Of course, they had to be the former princes, the Wairf’s wings gleaming, the Pyr’s sword still raised to cut them off. “Not. here.”

Always one to enjoy making things uncomfortable, Garrick laughed. “Fine, out in the courtyard then. I have something to show you all anyway.”

I followed, more relieved to be out of earshot of the vampires to be concerned about whatever Garrick had planned.

Until I heard the screech.

I’d read the records. I had pored over the descriptions of our former kin, and the noises they’d make to strike fear in their enemies during battle.

But I never, ever thought I would live to hear a Wairf’s scream.

I whirled to face Garrick, who was far-too-smugly leaning against the garden wall. “What have you done?”

His smirk made me wish I was close enough to plunge my sword into him.

“I made a better vampire.”

My heart was plunging to the depths of hell as he continued to speak.

“I borrowed some DNA, and I cast a little spell. They were stupid. Wairfs… Pyrs… Even the names. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. They fought for nothing, just so one could claim superiority when neither deserved it. Combined, however… Combined they create a new breed. Stronger than both. Smarter than both. And released right here, for them to see where their petty war got them.”

As if timed, the hybrid’s shadow cast over us as he flew screeching through the open palace doors.

The elders are going to be so mad when they wake up.

And suddenly I knew. They were going to wake. They were going to wake because of what Garrick had done, and our people would pay.

“You idiot!”

I ran. The king would be the first. The others were already beginning to stir, droplets of their entrapment dripping to nothingness. But I had to find King Alareiks.

Behind me, the demon screeched again, looping overhead. Garrick’s magic was nowhere near as advanced as his ego, yet even I could see that his creation was truly a hybrid. The strong wings and tail of a Wairf, the lean musculature of the Pyr, the standard wolf’s head of the advanced Pyr warrior who transforms in battle.

It would have been impressive, if it wasn’t so damn stupid.

He found King Alareiks before I did, landing on the balcony overlooking the ballroom just as I skidded in, his eyes shifting between me and the nearly-awakened King of Wairfs. I kept him in my field of vision as I approached, eyes cast down as was the old custom.

For Keeps

June 13, 2019

This is yours to keep.

This moment, soon-to-be memory, soon-to-be faded dream. This caress of words, so soft you might break. This whisper of touch, so loud your voice shakes. This weight. Not burden, just the knowing: you’re safe.

It cannot last. Fear will creep. Reality seeps. Present gently wars with future and past.

But for now, there is this.

And this is yours to keep.

After the War

2nd June 2019

You joined the fight so you could stop feeling helpless. And yet now, as the world crumbles around you, the anguish is worse than it’s ever been. All you can do is watch, and follow, as they drag them into the chamber, chained and blindfolded, silent in the face of death. Your allies. Your friends.

You curse the powers that drew you to the war in the first place. Being unseen, unheard unless made aware, was incredibly useful for intelligence gathering, for stealth missions where slit throats were better than the cacophony of gunfire. But now, though desperate to be seen, desperate to show that you haven’t abandoned them, desperate to die by their side, something within you – always beyond your control – won’t let you.

The anguish gives way to anger. You scream, but the soldiers calmly piling your friends in a room too white to be pure remain impassive. Just following their orders, unknowing, unseeing. You follow them out the door.

“You’ll kill them! You’ll kill children and old men! But you won’t kill me? Not young enough? Not old enough? Look at me!”

Nothing. Not from them. Not from your friends.

Then a small gasp from behind you. The doctor heard something. She sees something. You whirl, are on her in a second, a knife nearly severing the artery on the side of her neck before you realize with horror that she’s pregnant. They’d send someone pregnant to do this, someone carrying life to take it clinically and without thought. Does her line even deserve to go on, if she’s here? But no. You won’t kill a child. A mother. Not even one of theirs.

“How can I help them? Where are the keys?” You press the knife in just a little more, just enough to make her think she’s going to die. “Where?”

“Next room over,” she chokes out. “They always keep the keys in the next room over, to collect the chains once it’s done.”

You let her go. Grab the gauze on the tray next to her and wrap it around her throat. She says nothing, and you know she won’t betray you.

Then you’re there. Some focus, a short run, and you’re in the next room but you’re not alone. The keys are in the general’s hand but there’s no time for stealth, no time to make sure you’re still unseen. You grab. She resists, grabs for you, calls for guards, but you wrench yourself away.

You will not fail them. Not when you’re so close.

Out the room. Back to the next. Hands working fast, keys shaking and chains clinking to the floor. You can hear the guards – much less impassive now as they rush towards you all – but you don’t care as long as they get out first.

You drag them away, weary, broken, confused, but running for the lives they so nearly lost.
Then it’s over. The war.

The rubble remains. The ash still in the air despite how many months it’s been. Despite people out amongst the ruins everyday, trying to rebuild.

There’s a new leader now. You remember him. Fought with him, once. He’ll be good for the world. Already trying to make amends.

You listen to him speak, simple words from a man who spent more time using his hands. The world listens. All over, from crumbling skyscrapers to burnt villages.

You know they do, because you turn and walk away, find yourself in Tokyo, his words echoing in Japanese through the larger-than-life holograms.

Another step. The same in Russia.

Another step. The same in Dubai.

It feels like a movie. Cut-scene after cut-scene. Nation after nation. Showing what remains of the world as they listen to the one person who can give them hope.

You come to the street of the last battle. Where you struggled so hard to save your friends. The barricades have been removed, but it’s not much of a road, still. Still churned up concrete and stains you want to forget. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. But you can’t leave.

So you scream, rushing forward, seeing the horses and the enemies on top of them again, dark helmets and vests, before you’re back to reality, and the lights on top of shotguns turn into lanterns as food deliveries are made.

Food. Food sounds nice.

You wander, finally deciding on a small family-owned place. But when you walk in you realize you’re still crying. Turn just as the little boy locks eyes with yours. Curious. Concerned. Then he runs past you, yelling for his parents as you ignore him and rush to the bathroom, pour water over your face again and again.

You need to get clean, but you know you’ll never feel pure again. Still, you take off your suit, ignore the scars on your skin, try to cool your burning skin with wet cloth.

You’re about to get dressed again when she bursts in. Clearly the locks here are useless. You avoid her eye, grabbing your clothes and hoping she’ll just leave.

She looks scared. You hate that you notice. You know it means you’ll do something about it.

She notices you then. Takes a breath, puts on a charming smile. Glances at your body then lays a hand on your chest, groping. “I didn’t know you were a woman under there. That’s kind of exciting. What if we…”

You don’t let her finish. You grip her wrist, move it away. “You and I both know that I’m not your type.” You don’t tell her you’re offended she thought this what she needed to do, to get help from a soldier. You don’t tell her you’ve been used and manipulated enough to not want something as sacred as this tainted by transaction. You don’t tell her she’s pretty, and tempting, and that you might have let her continue her thought in another life, one where she wasn’t so obviously straight.

Instead, you say, “I heard the boy. I know you’re all in trouble. Just let me get dressed.”

She sighs out a thank you, grateful and ashamed in one breath. You ignore it.

You put your clothes back on, listening to the noises outside. Loud, confident men barking orders and laughs and making the waitresses squeal in fear. You know the gangs that have emerged since the war. You know the way they’ve clawed into small businesses like this one.

You wonder if that was partly why you walked in here.

Then you walk out the door, to the large center table, and you remind yourself what it’s like not to feel helpless.

Three Words, Eight Letters

Apr 12th, 2013 5:29:13pm

Words are strange, fickle things. They’re a lot like people that way. They have the power to hurt and to heal, to hide and to reveal, to break and to mend, to create and to destroy. They can become hollow from overuse, from repetition, from lies. Or said by the right person they can be and mean everything. And just like people, the marks left by words are often not visible.

There are many things that I say too much. Things I repeat again and again because I sometimes feel they’re constantly forgotten, or disregarded as folly. Sometimes, it’s because I have no idea what else to say. Mostly, though, I repeat things because I feel they need to be heard, and why try to say it differently when this particular phrasing says it so well? But it often scares me, the thought that maybe I repeat things because there’s no more to me than that. That perhaps those words make up my entire being in a nutshell, and that I do not evolve, do not advance, do not learn. That one day, all I’ll essentially be is a broken record, constantly left behind because who ever wants to hear the same things over and over again? They lose their value, when spoken long enough, do they not?

There are many things that I say too much. “I love you” used to be one of them. People don’t realise how driven I am by love. And when they do, it scares them, so they pretend not to notice. I guess I love too much, and perhaps too openly, and it’s hard for me to understand why everyone craves acceptance, understanding, unconditional love, yet run away from it when offered, unable to believe its existence to be more than a dream, unable to grasp the fact that it’s here to stay. It’s hard for me to get that. But then… I do get it. I get it more than I give myself credit for, because hey, I’m actually the same.
Hypocritical or self-deluded or both, you tell me. And so before (or maybe I was too late, I know not) the words “I love you” became hollow, draining, too terrifying to bear, more a burden than a comfort, I stopped saying it as much.

At least, not in words.

If you look closely enough, however, you’ll see it. Hidden in my greetings and my goodbyes. In the way I smile at you. In the way I’ll poke fun but then apologise profusely if I think I’ve taken it even a smidgen too far. In my offers of help, my pathetic words of comfort, my attempts at encouragement, my random phone calls or messages or links.
It’s there, my friends. In everything I do. With me always hoping that you see it. That you understand its presence. That I’m leaving my mark, a good mark, even if it’s not visible, and will never be to me.

Hello. (I love you.)

Asking if you’re okay. (I love you.)

Listening to you speak, no matter the topic, as I smile and nod and urge you to continue in my own little ways, paying closer attention than you might think. (I love you.)

Helping with something. Trying to cheer you up. Distracting you without prying. Letting you rant. Walking on the outside of the pavement, just in case. Offering whatever I can, like my jacket when you’re cold. (I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.)

Remembering little things about you and showing you that I remember, when the circumstance arises.  (I love you.)

Goodbye. (And I love you.)

P.S: And to all you strangers, to all you fighting your battles with the world and yourselves, trying to find happiness or struggling to survive…

To all you beautiful, incredible people:

I love you all, too.

Thud Thud Thud Goes the Slack Drum~

Jul 23rd, 2011 2:13:00am

“There is no escaping reason; no denying purpose. Because as we both know, without purpose, we would not exist. It is purpose that created us. Purpose that connects us. Purpose that pulls us. That guides us. That drives us. It is purpose that defines us. Purpose that binds us.” Agent Smith | The Matrix Reloaded

A fine quote from a fine movie, which has the added advantage of being completely and utterly true. Without purpose, we wander aimlessly and listlessly in this world. Our passions are as short-lived as the effects of a drug: a temporary high before returning to a reality of… what? Short-lived because while it is a discovery of something new, once we realise it isn’t really for us we give it up and continue our search for… what?

Purpose. Something to live for. To work towards. A goal to achieve, a way of life to adopt. Something that brings up challenges everyday, challenges we relish in, because we know it is all worth it, because we enjoy the thrill of knowing that getting through it is one step closer to getting what we want. Our purpose – our true purpose – stays with us all our life. It is not a mere phase, a stage to get through. It is what we were made to do. Everything before then is passing the time until you figure out what that is. There’s nothing after.

One’s purpose sticks, forever. You are born with it, you lose it, forget it as you grow, and if you’re lucky, you remember once more later and fulfill it for as long as you live. You die with no regrets, knowing that you found out what you were here for and you went for it, day after day. You gave it your all.

Then there’s the everyday “To-Do List”. There are few people in this world who are satisfied with simply doing nothing. We must be moving, working, playing… We must ACT or else we wither away with boredom and the feeling that we are wasting precious time. As humans with limitless energy, we don’t do well with nowhere to channel it and nothing to distract ourselves with. We just get so darn… BORED. Our thoughts drift in and out… We feel useless. Like there’s something we need to be out there doing but since we don’t know what it is we just lay here, doing no more than existing. What of the plans we need to make, implement, be ready for? What of the goals we need to achieve or – on a smaller scale – the errands we need to run? That important project due soon, the book we need to read, the movie we want to watch… It goes on and on. The world is absolutely saturated with the different things to do, that are being done, that need to be done… We need to stay occupied, and the world is just filled with ways to do exactly that. To give us something to work towards, even if just for a short time. Something to complete.

It’s one of those never-ending cycles that runs rampant in society. We do things, look for things, create things, play with things, achieve things, and as soon as we’re done and the high of it has worn off, we move on to the next thing to do, look for, create, play with, achieve. We are always wandering, searching for that one thing that we can stick to and never tire of, getting other things done in the meantime so we can feel important, that our existence means something, is contributing something to the world. So that we don’t get squashed and suffocated with the realisation of just how small we truly are. We are like sharks: we need to keep moving, else we die (or feel dead).

In many ways, it’s wonderful. Our desire to make something of our lives has propelled us to amazing heights. Unimaginable heights deemed impossible not-so-many years ago. However, we all crave movement so badly that we’ve forgotten the peace and beauty of stillness. To lay in the sun, nothing pending, no distractions, feeling the breeze upon your face and listening to nothing but the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds. To climb up to a building rooftop at night and simply gaze at the stars. To appreciate the laughter of a child, hear the poignancy of silence. To lie in bed with the company of your own thoughts, or a loved one breathing softly next to you.

It’s all about balance, I feel. Without purpose… Well, Sylvia Plath put it best: ”If I sit still and don’t do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.”

…Just don’t forget that there still is beauty and peace in being still, too.

It Starts with One.

Jan 19th, 2011 9:40:00pm

One thought. That thought gives rise to another, and another, and another. On on and on, until you finally stop and wonder, “How did I get here?” Most often, or probably always, that first thought is completely unrelated to where you ended up, except through the series of connected thoughts that got you there. With me so far?

Who’s heard of the Six Degrees of Separation theory? I have always loved it. I find it fascinating. The possibility that any two people anywhere in the world, can be connected through six people or less. Imagine it. Six billion people in the world, and you could reach out to any of them through just six. Of course, it all depends on choosing the right first “degree”.

“It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world.” – Chaos Theory

That is a famous line, that is. Almost everyone’s heard of it. But has anyone thought of just how much it means? The implications? One word, one action, one decision. That’s all it takes to change… Everything. Anything. It shapes the rest of your life, until another decision alters it, and then another.

That’s how life works. You don’t know what’s ever going to happen because there are so many possibilities that open up with so much as the flexing of your little finger, ever changing with every movement, every moment. It’s mind boggling, but also, in its way, rather beautiful, while additionally being completely and utterly terrifying.

We are all connected. Every one of us. You can try denying it but honestly? There is no denying it at all. We live in one world, in one universe, under one collective consciousness that we may only be truly aware of in the deepest parts of our subconscious. And through that connection, our actions shape our world. Everything has consequence. Everything has a cause and effect, a reaction. It all lies in the choices you make.

Scary, isn’t it? This knowledge comes with such unbelievable responsibility, doesn’t it?
Think of it this way, though. You can’t ever say that you can’t make a difference. Anyone can make a difference. All they have to do is act. To try. Even if you don’t see the change you wished to create in your lifetime, at least know that you set the ball in motion. Your deeds have set a chain reaction in the world, and within our collective consciousness, and the world will never be the same again.

One thought. One decision. One action. It starts with one.

Make it the right one.