Every so often, reality cracks open.
Not through a ritual, not in ceremony—just in the middle of a normal day.

You might be sitting at the beach, light flickering on the water, and suddenly it hits: What even is this? How is any of this real? How do I exist in the middle of it?

It’s not a thought. It’s an awareness.
Something in you remembers: this isn’t ordinary.
It’s miraculous.

Every night, I clean the coffee pot. Every day, the laundry piles up. I finally get a load done, and within hours there’s another heap of wet, dirty clothes waiting in front of the machine, carrying the faint smell of damp cotton. I vacuum the house, and by the next day tumbleweeds of Labrador retriever fur are blowing in the fan’s wind, clinging to socks and skimming across the floor. I pay the bills, and new ones arrive with the slap of envelopes hitting the counter. The cycle never stops.

We think we’re moving toward “done,” but life always circles back to messy, dirty, empty, or due again. It’s not a flaw in the way we live — it’s the fabric of reality itself.