I like writing late at night. It’s less about the inherent quiet of darkness, and more about what that quiet does in fostering an ability to wander empty halls of thought. In those hours it’s easy to let my mind walk the tightrope between hypothetical worlds. Sometimes I wonder where I’m trying to get to; and other times I wonder if I’m simply trying to get back to. Life exists paradoxically in this way I think. Living with intention is difficult. I want to create. I really want to write more, which has been hard recently. I want to feel moments filled with so much connection and authenticity that they become both spacious and weightless at the same time. I also want to eat gummies and watch TV. Growing up we had a long, vertical spool of paper on which we would draw treehouses, creating intricate versions of the structures we’d like to build while shaping a world that only existed high in the trees. The natural obsession to see the world from a wide vantage is ageless. Maybe it relates back to the innate wonder of what it’d be like to fly, or to see your enemies approaching from miles away. I think that’s why humans revel in places like floor of Yosemite or the rim of the Grand Canyon. Whether at the top or the bottom, there’s an intrinsic urge to understand the metaphorical geography of the peaks and valleys. “The world is the perfect size – too big to see it all, but small enough to try.” I desperately wish I could live in all my worlds at once, existing flawlessly in the portal between everywhere and everyone who feels like home. But if that’s not possible, then let it be 1:30 AM in your living room and we are immortal and present wandering those empty halls of thought and where do you see yourself in ten years, you ask? Somewhere up high; I say, forever traversing the branches between change and absolute.