So here I am again in the middle of the night. What's up with that? The Soul's Midnight, the Insomniac's Bath House,
It seems to me that our experience of life is largely internal. I know that events shape us and are important, that human interaction is part of what makes life worth living. But in some ways, it doesn't matter till I internalize it. What is real? There's no such thing as the color green until my eye perceives it and my brain registers it as green. What's more important even than that registry internally is what "green" means to me. Green means a conversation outside of JC Penny when I was 8 that made my mother laugh. Not a sound I heard often. I relished it. Green is the color of the grass between her fingers in the dark at the park in August, 1987. Green is the inside ring of her iris as she sits at the piano with me.
Green is not the absence of other wavelengths of light. Life is internal. Even for the extrovert.
Now I can sleep. The Bath House is closed. - ursus