Hazy

In Rocket League, when someone joins in the middle of the game, the game lags and glitches momentarily, integrating the new player into the network. My friend mused, what if real life lagged every time someone new entered.

Life ultimately remains fascinating, despite the waking drudgery of our days. Sometimes I’ll wake in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and still be crossing the ethereal divide between two different worlds—I’ll stare out the window, through the night and onto the moon—and in this drunken haze, I’ll immediately melt in the infinitude of our existence, in the realness of this experience. In that moment, the moon becomes mystifying—You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be a thing. what are you? where are we? These hazy concoctions by my brain are not something I produce by will, but are almost a chemical helplessness emanating from my source.

Other times, in the middle of the afternoon, I’ll catch my reflection on a clear glass window, lock eyes with my projection, and think in total stupor, what is this?

These sorts of incidents happen with only little more regularity than the sighting of a shooting star, and I cherish them. It's the soul of the universe winking at me, almost as if to remind me: I’m still here.