The Flight of the Rocketman

"This is happening here and now. It's got nothing to do with footprints. Reality and I exist simultaneously at this present moment. That's the most important thing." -- Sleep, written by Haruki Murakami (translated by Jay Rubin)

I'll be leaving for the beach tomorrow (or actually, in a few hours). As much as I wished it were a vacation, this trip is business. I'm going to Boracay to shoot some stuff for the television show I'm working on. It's great, a completely free working vacation. Everything is sponsored. Everything is settled through exchange deals. Free advertising for them, free accommodations, food and air fare for us.

And so we'll shoot all that we have to shoot and when we are done, we can enjoy and relax. We do have a full schedule, though, and we'll be spending a lot of time shooting. But the nights are generally free. It's all good.

I find myself completely enamoured by people who I connect with quite easily and quickly. Sometimes, as the days go by, as the years go by, you become accustommed to a certain rhythm in your life. You never get what you want; you never win the lottery; you aren't lucky; the things that will make you happy won't land in your lap. And you get used to it. You accept it as universal truth, as part and parcel of the manual that you've been given when you were born (except that God damned manual can't be read until you've reached a certain age; and it changes from time to time). And then, one moment, you do something that doesn't belong in the manual and all of a sudden, you get what you want, things you want come your way, you begin to deviate from the way your life has been going and all of a sudden, it just seems easier to smile and be happy. The jokes come out more freely. Your smile is sincere. It is easier to tell the truth, it is easier to be.

And I find myself easier to connect to. And I can spend 3 and a half hours on the phone with someone and just be totally caught up in the conversation that you don't realise how much time has passed and that you still have things to do and your bag remains unpacked and you've forgotten to get all excited about going. You just are.

As much as Haruki Murakami cuts down to the core of simple truth: reality and I exist simultaneously at this present moment; he seems to have forgotten to mention that so do different realities and different people as well. All existing simulataneously. They collide with each other and these bumps create inaudible sounds, but we can feel the vibrations in our hearts. And we exist because these vibrations tug us to different directions - love or work, money or honour and dignity, happiness or angst. And we start moving to that direction, whichever we feel we belong, whichever is necessary to us at that moment. And that movement is existence. All still objects, living or inanimate, do not truly exist. They are merely decorations in the fabric of time. They are merely design, ornamental. They can be covered or moved aside.

In the fabric of time, it is those in motion, those that take action that dictates the pattern.