The single most important concept in reality theory is thread-
the stitches that pull one moment to the next moment,
to any moment, to every moment,
and blow about untethered and vague when picked loose.
I stood lazily against the doorway of my girlfriend’s ugly purple room,
inebriated and soaking in her curls like I was sucking the sweetness from honey comb-
when I noticed threads for the first time.
It started with a red sinew plucked astray from my heart which flourished wildly, turning and looping to spell out a secret.
In a timeless language it told me in that moment, I was every drunk 20-something in every half-baked first home thinking they fucked it all up but knowing it didn’t matter,
because every young lover has always held the same medicinal honey.
Crystal cupped sunken cheeks in busted hands, half-turned to pluck at a burnt orange rope hanging solemnly from the ceiling,
and then I heard her plead she knew her father was a bastard… but he wasn’t always.
She stared up to every broken kid’s maybe-there-but-probably-not god,
and asked me when her father became the father he is and when she became that bastard too.
I came closer to place a hand on her knee and we sat at the edge of the couch, every bastard father who probably had a bastard for a father
and told themselves they’d address that shit some never-coming day.
Our bodies rocked to competing rhythms as Alan Watts flowed through the speaker,
a gold ribbon tickling at the base of our spines and tangling itself in the bow which wrapped this gift to us-
“If there was a Big Bang in the beginning– you’re not something that’s a result of the Big Bang.
You’re not something that is a sort of puppet on the end of the process.
You are still the process.”
and our pupils expanded as we became unshakably aware-
we were born of every atom that chose to explode forth and be alive and were, in turn,
every humbled young mother who ever swung comfortably…
again comfortably from vague, untethered threads.