Writing is one way of me navigating my mind-body-soul-spirit paradigm both in itself and as part of the greater collectives. With the question of “Who/What am I?” lingering around in the shadow of my existence, to me the question of Why has been more seductive and daunting. I’m not talking about logic in its seemingly perfectly linear, consequential, widely adaptable manners (though that is very captivating, like polygons), but rather what I assume to be patterns of design that fit into a philosophy, a mindset, an identifiable consistency of and by something much greater than myself and the limited scope of my perceived life. I’m not talking about God or the Universe in the religious or spiritual angle of those concepts either. I believe, or rather, I wonder a lot about the science behind the arts of all things, a flexible equilibrium that upholds all the possibilities that can and will ever be, a definite argument that satisfies the infiniteness beyond all bounds. It’s not a question nor a hypothesis that I want to answer or prove, yet an experience I want to turn my being into as the finale. While writing is not the way to get me there, it is one of the best companions of my active and idle explorations. In the end, there will be no words. Before that, I need all the words and the gaps in between that I can encounter and absorb and let go and wrestle with and remember and forget all the way towards nothingness.