A beautiful, imperfect sort of symmetry.

Four minute writing exercises

Question: If you peek under the tent of life, what do you hear? What do you see? What makes you sneeze?

My answer

At first, there is nothing, but shhh. Listen closely; listen harder. Now wait. Do you hear that? No, no. Not that. That's your stomach rumbling. I told you to eat before you came here. -- Yes, that. That is the sound of your own breathing, the sound of your lungs expanding and contracting with the inevitable passing of time. Of blood flowing through your veins, so steady, so sure. 

And do you see that? Look closely, but do not squint. Look with wide eyes and open mind and you will see yourself, reflected in the deep pools of a still lake, moonlight illuminating your face. You will see yourself as you were meant to see you -- as the world sees you: Beautiful, alive, and free.

His answer

Under the tent of life, there is a carnival. A carnival of bugs playing trumpets made of leaves. And I hear the cacophony of life, of fun, of activity. The carnival of tiny bugs that look like humans. Fireworks go off, and I hold the tent up high to watch them soar up into the sky. Inside the tent, life shifts and tips with my movements, but I don't care: My eyes reflecting the glow of this Subterranean Festival of Underlife.

--

This is when I knew. This moment, when he finished reading his answer aloud. I knew.