I dwell in Possibility —
A fairer House than Prose —
More numerous of Windows —
Superior — for Doors —
Of Chambers as the Cedars —
Impregnable of Eye —
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky —
Of Visitors — the fairest —
For Occupation — This —
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise —
—[Poem #657, ca. 1862] Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
All of us dwell in possibility, or some form of it. We believe in time, and change, and the possibility of being in perpetual bliss at some future time.
We stand balancing on the knife-edge of the present. From the clock, the present moment takes up its bearings, discarding them in every second and replacing them with fresh ones. But the bearings are lies: the present goes nowhere in time. The past and future are illusions. There is only the present moment we live in, the eternal now.
If there is paradise, it is found in the only time we possess. The only time that exists, and the only time in which we exist. The dwelling of possibility must become an abode of certainty in the present.
(All artwork, descriptions, & other writing [With the exception of quotations] copyright © by Eric Edelman. All rights reserved.)