“Are you having a party?

Yes.
It’s called
’the rest of my life’”

Every place that I imprint on has some memory of someone.
Someone known. Someone remembered.
The feeling that I have been here before, and I was not alone.
Here, it was you I think. What a privilege to have felt that with you next to me.
We have been here before. In another life, we are still there.
I think we are happy. In that life too.
And it's a privilege to know, that in another reality, somehow loosely tethered to this one, we love each other too.

To the endless realities.

It’s funny. Looking back, everything fits on two pages. The bullet agenda, not the journal. Colors, tasks, tiny drawings.

And then there are all the moments in between that didn’t make it into the agenda or journal. The tastes and smells and images and ancient languages that we can feel but not speak, that we can only remember, almost, barely, when we hear it, notice it, in between fracturing colliding realities, universes, dimensions.

Messie.

Messie attempts in this story we’ve always known and continue to re-read again and again, hoping to find some hidden justification in its existence. And what we make of the triumphs in between the cracks that ultimately bring us to the same place again: why bother.

But perhaps, the little traces of those “triumphs”, the evidence we leave, in the messie paint jobs, the white cabinets already chipped, lopsided plants and wiggly bookshelf, the flickering bamboo light hanging above the dining table, a new groaning microwave - the visible, physical proofs of our story here, perhaps they offer just a tiny consolation as to why, why we bothered. Supposedly living, supposedly loving, still existing to laugh, cry, scream, believe, hope, try.