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.

It is an old and almost respectable error to presume that distance is measured in miles. I have no doubt that cartographers have committed this error for centuries. It served them well, I’m sure, because their concern is only with places that agree to be mapped. Where point A and point B can be drawn on paper the same way a box can be drawn to indicate a kitchen table, a bed, or a nation-state.

Most of my days are spent thinking about, investigating, researching, and journaling the various aspects of my ongoing atopic (anomalous) experiences and the underlying circumstances. I once thought the experiences themselves were the hardest part. They're not — though that's not to say they're getting any easier either.

No, not hardly.

I suppose it’s presumptuous to assume that my posts are of any interest to anyone, let alone worthy of a few minutes of attention to be read. But that assumes I’m writing this because I desire or crave attention. Honestly, I do not.

But I am compelled, for reasons I myself do not entirely understand, to share my thoughts and opinions here on things that probably should not be shared.

For the past 40 years, I've lived my life as a logical empiricist who refused to believe or deny anything that could not be proven objectively. Recent anomalous experiences have made that position untenable.