To be there and here, at the same time

— I was pulled from the depths, frostbitten and blue, galvanized with the knowledge that there was something more and something less. It could have been the proverbial buried treasure or the mysterious forbidden fruit, but I took it as a sign and hastily applied for my very own library card.

Like swimming under water, reading was my baptism. Boundaries became manageable, walls scalable. My curiosity grew wings as I discovered what it was like to travel the world and beyond without moving from my chair.

Core concepts such as knowledge, justice and truth are embodied in the spirit of the library, providing a common ground for all disciplines. In a recent study conducted by Rice University and the University of Buffalo, it was found that almost one in five atheist scientists involve their families with religious institutions. Wanting the privilege to be exposed to an unchecked world of knowledge, they indicated a desire to prepare their children to make educated decisions about their personal religious preferences.

Somewhere distant, there is a maze of no walls at all. I find myself there and here at the same time, almost like searching for the glasses on the bridge of my nose.

My wisdom sometimes laps the universe, but then the wheels fall off, and I’m back to where I started, out of breath without doing anything. Like the memory of a forgotten dream, I know it’s there, but I don’t know what it is.

I spent a lifetime proving to myself that everyone was wrong, thinking that would make me right, only to find that I was wrong.

Proof is a myth, a series of unholy rungs holding together non-existent ladders that I climbed only to discover the ladders were leaning against the wrong walls.

Right and wrong is all of a thing, divided only by a subjective line that we draw, a concoction. We’re all concoctions.

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