We must believe in the little subliminal fictions that we create along the way, or none of it makes sense. The first cup of coffee is worth a thousand, and for good reason—there is a myth associated with it, and day after day, the myth is regurgitated without words, and day after day, its effect is emboldened. And when you build a life as I have, around many such stories carved out of my own hands instead of handed down by a mother or some wayward priest, you are protective of it like a bear for its cub. This life is my own, and not because I am living it but because I have made it, and I have done this brick by brick, myth by myth, and all of it is an archive, and all of it is an orchestra, meticulous in its arrangement, precise in its sound.
Intuitiveness, attentiveness, consciousness are mere words people learn at a seminar. I reckon it is not until you have sat for hours and looked at the sun and thought of why it is that your heart sinks even when the world is burned by hope and warmth, repeatedly, until epiphany strikes and you know why, and that the answer does not matter for they seldom do; only that you have found one, and now, you must place the rug a certain way so that when the first light strikes, it touches the corner with the grasp of a toddler, and it refuses to let go, and it shines brightest in the room, and so, when you enter, you see it, and all is well in the world, and when you sleep the next time around, you sleep on time; you look forward to entering the room again.