I believe people often talk too much and say very little. I see it in the small, subtle things. The constant circling without connecting. Answers orphaned of questions. Meaning divorced from cause. Motivations kept hidden like bandaged scars.

I had a vision in the small hours before dawn, somewhere far from home. Not a dream. I know the difference. I’ve known the difference for a very long time. Dreams are random nonsense. Incoherent. Flat. Fleeting. Visions are vivid. Visceral. Profound. The five senses are all active and engaged. I’m conscious though unconscious. I control my mind, speech, and actions despite sleep.

I write, as all others have done who have taken pen in hand, because there are things within me that compel release. Consigning them to paper as one commits dream to memory — or love to marrow and soul. I do this despite knowing the inadequacies of my words and that their failure is in itself ceremony.

I have lived my life surrounded by a series of synchronistic experiences nearly always focused on music as a means of conveying the quality of certain relationships, events, and their meanings. I never paid them any mind until this year, having chalked up such experiences to nostalgia, trauma, and other such joys and sorrows one collects as evidence of living.

There are different kinds of places we call home. The one the nomad calls wherever they may roam. The one the exile calls when there’s nowhere else to go. The kind I remember from childhood and can never return to. No place now to truly call home.

Today, I felt a void that could only be filled with these words:

A few months ago, I was walking down 7th Street near the arena when a young woman approached me and asked if she could pray with me. Skeptical and curious, I agreed. As I listened to her prayer, I followed the meaning of her words: a plea that I might obtain salvation through her conception of the divine, the supreme, the ordered heaven she envisioned above. I thanked her, declined her invitation to join her religion, and walked on to breakfast another block away.

There are truths that cannot be approached from without. They disclose themselves only when a particular geometry has been achieved: a witness standing in the necessary relation to a place, an hour, an object, an absence, or an event whose true beginning may lie elsewhere. Celestial motion — vast and indifferent.

We may often hear the word self-care, a term I first started hearing during the pandemic. When I queried this term on a search engine, here’s part of the definition that was displayed:

I know now what I was never meant to know.

I would trade it. All of it. Without hesitation.

Knowing the way home isn’t the same as being there.