The moment of now.

Our bodies are better adherents to the virtue of honesty than we are; within a certain magical distance, the layers of muscles, fascia, and skin become transparent, and emotion is telepathic. I can feel my skin tightening and my facial muscles stiffening, betraying my ingenuine effort to lift into a smile. The lackadaisical execution of a smile, half out of social obligation and half out of emotional concealment, sends the same message as the bark of a stray dog retreating in a last attempt to intimidate—everything is under control, and I’m definitely not losing the game of life. The involuntary exhibition of misery under a pathetically unconvincing smile is far too intimate for both sides of the interaction, so we dart away from each other like two magnets of the same charge after a quick exchange of soft “good nights.”

The body feels abnormally heavy, huge, difficult to command, and awkwardly positioned in every swing of the legs and sway of the arms. The tendency to externally self-observe pops up uncontrollably, and the unsubstantiated apprehension of being simultaneously despised and ignored by the strangers sharing the same walkway clings to me like wild seaweed. Looking up, the sunset is objectively stunning: shades of clementine, fresh blood, and dark sea meshing and twirling majestically, like the first movement of Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins, as if setting the stage for the arrival of Gods and Goddesses. But no one ever comes aside from the impenetrable color of black that rapidly dilutes and overtakes the colors. I remember myself under another sunset just like this, hypnotized and staring rapaciously, feeling like a thief unworthy of this generously endowed beauty for free. Somehow, right now, beauty is registered but not felt; the person who was so easily moved by it seems entirely someone else, unrelatable and jealousy-invoking. Suddenly, I wonder if I exist at all; if the state of me is so dependent on conditions and relationships that arise almost at random, does the impermanence not indicate a lack of essence? I’m overtaken by an urge to scream and make known to the world that my life on this earth is not real but my soul is, yet I know that will not change the fact that currently, the opposite feels like the truth.

As soon as I step into the apartment, the sofa exerts an irresistible suction on my body, and time speeds up like a vortex. There the body stays immobile while the mind races through time and space frantically, producing fragments of thoughts, pieces of plans, and flashes of memories, completely incoherent and unproductive. The exhausting mental calculations of future ramifications run in repeat, again and again, yielding the same outcome. The incredible speed at which thoughts form and dissolve before any meaning can be deciphered further stiffens the body and traps me inside. I repeatedly slam myself against the body, prompting it to move, but it reacts like an army revolting against an incapable general, opting to lead itself instead—the safest thing to do right now, it decides, is to stay still. I feel momentarily confused. What in the world is even happening right now? How did I get here? How is it that my idea of myself, the expression of myself, had been executed so comically poorly in reality, resulting in this version of me?

Yes, there are signs, but like drawing a line from a point, a slight angle deviation in the beginning results in a completely different life. The angle deviation of my line, my life, has just grown big enough to arouse my mind into consciousness.

As each round of calculations speeds up like a merry-go-round gone rogue in a horror movie, something red, hot, and volatile slowly rises and bubbles; I hesitate, unsure whether to push it out of me or dump it on myself—who deserves this raging anger sprawling out of hell? If A had not happened, then B would’ve gone differently; C has its standalone impacts as well. All in all, if just one of them had diverged, it would be a different line, a different story right now. But everything occurs exactly how it did, making my current version seem almost fateful. So whose fault is it? Is it my health, my genetics? The giant gap between technological advancements and societal ethics development? Wrong place at the wrong time? Or is it God, the creator of fate? The heaviest things in this world are the lives lived and the lives not chosen; sanity is crumbling under the weight, and I desperately want to transfer it elsewhere—anyone else, anyone but me. Unfortunately for me, inklings of rationality remain. I understand clearly that even though it might be true that every atom of the universe took part in the creation of me, I have always sat on the center throne of creation. I chose the elements, the atoms, and the relationships that formed me; I yielded power to some, allowed others to mold me, and fell in love with the addicting feeling of weakness. God simply watched and gave allowance.

The unwanted clarity pins me under the weight while my bones crackle. So me it is. I plunge into the redness, acidic, burning, fueled by remorse and shame. Uncontrollably, anger channels through every space within me, shrieking to be let out and made free so it can meet its death under the sun. Destruction follows behind, blazing and laying bare everything feeble and dishonest, so something new can take life from the ashes. In the fire of inferno where the sharpest words and thoughts are repeatedly jabbed into all that is soft, a mellow yet persistent voice fades in and out. She says, “Come back, come back to now.”

Come back to now, where the past and future cease to be, where time ceases to be. Come back to now, where there’s no fear or anticipation, no cause and effect, where lives lived and lives not chosen are one and the same. Come back to now, where everything just eternally is. Come back to your senses—literally, your God-given senses, she says. See what’s in front of your eyes: the grey-brown stain of unknowable origin smeared on ceiling tiles, the shadows cast by the cars outside the windows, brightening, morphing, and then absolute stillness. Listen to the buzzing of the fridge, the soft shifting of leaves in the wind, the rhythmic lub-dub of the heart diligently contracting and relaxing. Feel the clamminess of the skin, the unprocessed emotion somehow taking the physical form of a lump and jamming my airway, the respiratory muscles straining to push air in and out, the weight of the body sinking into the sofa. Feel the breathing slow down, becoming softer. Feel the flow of the air wrapping around the lump, how it’s melting and minimizing with each inhale and exhale. Feel the senses and how they are coming back to me, how I’m coming back to me.

Then I remember again what it feels like to be alive. In the moment of now, all that’s structured by relationships fade, but my soul, our soul, the sole observer and creator of the universe remains. In the moment of now, the remnants of shame are still stinging but no longer crushing, pain is still throbbing but no longer excruciating, and the wetness of tears feels oddly nostalgic and loving that it seems almost cruel to dismiss sadness as undesirable. Division, polarity, and all associated implications dissipate; sensations and emotions serving the same goal of sustaining the existence of life become vibrant and palpable, all equally precious and deserving of indulgence. With each breath in and out, each fiber of feeling flows through our vessels like a calm, sunlight-stricken creek, gently making its way through the forest; every ebb and flow is light and carefree. In the moment of now, in the God-ordained shelter where all the barbarism of life becomes endurable, curious, almost peaceful. Here, we are held safe within ourselves, kept complete and free of damage. Here, we may rest for eternity. 

We will inevitably get caught up in the flow of the world and leave again, unconscious of what we are leaving behind or what we are heading into. Emotions will tangle up like yarns, mixes of defeat, shame, regret, anger, and tears will lock us into anxiety. We will unknowingly allow dust to accumulate, back ourselves to an edge, landing back on this sofa again. But that’s ok, because all are merely portals back to now, and we will remember that this moment now is always with us.