The revolution began a long, long time ago...

For instance, I was born in 1989, the year of the snake of Our Lord, at 8:09 A.M. on May 25th in Des Plains, Illinois--a name, when translated, meaning destiny.

As I now often say, I didn't ask for this. No one charts their destiny through a black hole thinking, "This is all very healthy and normal. How grand for humankind." Rather, a captain might ask themself, "What choice do we have at this point? Into the mystery we must go! Engage!"

I prefer, "Qapla!'" if leveraging the language of Star Trek, for, when translated from Klingon, means "Success!" I begin every adventure this way; I intend for success and hope to land it its vicinity. I inevitably land among stars, often those yet unknown to me.

I have been waiting to begin this story. I've been wondering at which point in a free fall does one reach through the interwebs by fingerprint to construct a nest for yet another story–yet more fodder for the infinite void in the endangered form that is writing. Writing, which typically lacks color, often fails to attract me nowadays. I carry books with me everywhere, hoping their wisdom will seep through the material that separates words from soul.

As a traveler of sorts, material things interest me in unusual ways. I have eschewed material accumulation for material curiosity. Does one need anything? If one does, what does one truly need? I find that I need. I need more than I have, these early days of the revolution.

Then again, these might be the late days of the revolution. The revolution we're experiencing on this planet has been continual for millennia. As a Millennial, I can appreciate this with particular fondness; I was destined for happiness, I recall, and now I am destined to die. I have died and will continue to for a long as necessary.

I prefer to die and still live, which is, to me, the ultimate punch line to existence. We cannot die, even when we wish to. We rise and get recycled, die and rise through time infinitely, which explains the physics of space.

When I economically grappled with the necessity of revolution in 2019, I tried killing myself. It is, after all, a losing game. But now that I choose to live and accept the deaths that come with it, I find that life is simply a game of odds, and one day I--we--will win. For we have never and will never submit to Hell on Earth. I choose Heaven every day. I score my way through the abyss, through the gravity that pulls me in every direction, through the dark, the silence, the cold. I wait to find my breath again, and then I keep breathing.

For whom? Not for George (Floyd), although I credit him for saving my life when I committed myself to the dead before my time. Not George (my father) who killed me most. Not me--I find this life tedious and heartbreaking. Such beautiful beautiful.

For the porpoises? I do fight for them daily, but no, they do not buoy my breath when I'm clinging to the reality of the day. Nor dogs, whose kind I wish to one day embody again. No, I find my breath for no one at all--I simply breath because it's what I find myself doing. And then, once I've found it, I find that other capacities have returned to me. I hum.

The husband of a friend died suddenly upon the new year, and while I wept, I also rejoiced, for I never knew him personally, and now I would be able to indulge in his presence at will. In life, we surround ourselves with self-imposed ghosts. Some people call them "boundaries," "time," "faith," or "science." I no longer acknowledge the frames of such limitations. I choose boundary-less-ness. I choose timelessness. I choose all beliefs everywhere, all at once. I choose to grow my knowledge at every opportunity, and I choose to be curious because I am committed to knowing nothing.

Thus is the way to lead upon the rise of a new Aeon/epoch/age/era. And while some continue to believe we have lost (the fire, undeniably, rages), I subscribe to the belief that we have already won. The burn will give way to fertility, and a new dawn will rise on this planet as soon as I can finish drinking this coffee. As soon as I can pay this bill. As soon as I can feel my toes in my shoes again. As soon as a stranger smiles at my joke, as soon as I can tell a story.

For we storytellers are gods. We imbue life into everything. That is what we all are, after all. The stories we tell ourselves. The stories we tell each other. For a captain embarking on a new dimension, I choose to tell stories of success, even when trembling, even when my breath has been stolen away by the gravity of it all. George reminded me, sure, but breathing? Takes very little effort, considering. The rest is left for the world. I exist, and that is remarkable. I live again. Qapla'!