“What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds.” - Cloud Atlas

I have this envelope on the seat next to me. I keep glancing at it, wondering. It's addressed to someone who broke my heart. Who changed my future. And my past.

And I can't decide what to do with it.

"Do whatever you can't not do." It's a whisper in my ear, from my better self.

Inside, there's a bank check and a folded note, written on printer paper.

And it's the note that bothers me most; that it could have been kinder. Could have been written by the better me.

But the pain of a re-written past is too great. And so is its twin, a divergent future. Birthed on the narratives of noble intent, they hide happiness like phantoms and ghosts that shadow the living.

Which is why the note is so devoid of kindness.

But to the thing that I can't not do.

I think about George.

In a scene from Back to the Future, I remember George McFly standing in the diner, bravely, notepad in hand and finally summoning the courage to ask Lorraine for a date.

"I'm George. George McFly," he said. "I'm your density. I mean, your destiny."

In that pity and humor, something can be found. In our density, we sometimes get it wrong. Maybe they're gawky or freckled, skinny or awkward. Perhaps like George. Or maybe so beautiful as to be fatally imperfect. That we can - and do - mistake our density for our destiny is evident everywhere.

And for those, like me, who dyslexically chose density, all is not lost. The universe seeks destiny too, and has unknowable power to force a cosmic do-over. The process - a collision between the squandered soul and the universe - is not without pain. Everything must be shattered - the atoms of our illusions and dreams - into a million particles.

Once reconstituted, we have the chance to seek a new timeline. To be like George - or perhaps Lorraine, instead, to choose the better of the two.

I believe the universe of souls is like an unending and infinite ocean of poppies; each flower, each petal, a potential destiny.

We must walk among them, searching and believing.

Believing that we can find it. The right timeline. The right love. The right soul.

And as we do, perhaps we'll also discover that there is wonder and happiness to be found in the looking, in the searching. In our time spent among the deep, beautiful shades of crimson and scarlet; among these flowers of souls.

And since that's where I want to spend my time, I pulled the note from the envelope and tossed it into the trash.

#heartbreak

An Atlas of Clouds, an Ocean of Poppies

On the moon