Sonder in eep

A sense of sonder settles, permeating from the pockets of eep as I whistle through halls. I never thought I could sense it, I certainly never assumed I could honestly bear it, but now, at this distance, such a sensation fits like a glove. Given the time and the space and the right hand to guide, not a single soul is beyond emerging from these pockets, and I feel them in layers beyond layers beyond layers, in fractal patterns that I had never considered in full until now. I realize that this Night of Mysterious Objects does not happen at random, though its celebration very well may. In a timeless place it is happening now and has always been happening; with causality an agreement not stuck in darkened spaces, who is to say which began as dust and which still are? It is I who aligns with this signal once in something like a blue moon, it is I whose present perspective suddenly senses that which may never have been and which may not yet be, but I imagine it so, I imagine it so. While I am there none protest, why would they? When I return none agree, why would they? This Night feels like a secret so deep that even spilling every details in vivid color onto page, canvas, and screen, into lyric, sculpture, note and dance is insufficient for others to see. So I wander these lonely halls, or at least I did once.

"Like a man finding the edge of a garment am I. One filled with wonder, at something external so obviously shaped by tailor's hand, in a place otherwise so barren, is it any wonder sparks fly? I analyze color and shape and texture; like dominos, labyrinthian walls fall into place. In a moment I realize how small a piece of the whole I hold. I imagine tailor and process required to make it, bearer and path they took to arrive and have this piece fall; like a storm impending, thoughts saturate my mind."

I hear the song first, and follow the sound. It is her song, it is their song, it is his song, and in this same Night, in some small sense, it becomes our song. I discover more doors than I could ever hope knock on; I see how paper thin my plan is, but knock all the same. Her eyes shine, their eyes shine, his eyes shine; when the door finds itself opened, family, friend, and more are found at the threshold. I knock, we knock, they knock, and I am humbled by how on the nose this plan was, divinely inspired, there is no doubt, though I deserved no such notice. For now with each door opened a new soul emerges, eager to aid in this quest. Perhaps paper was all that was needed, for which great works do we hang our hats on that could God not replicate by authority alone? Some call it redemption, some call it awakening, some call it a heist; we all have our preferences and threshold for adventure, coming and going. Regardless the same time that crawled up to that very first door now flies through wings of this maze that I have yet to imagine, and I can feel a glow preceding even these pathfinders. This space established as one's, and established as shared, sees Christmas lights hung since first flash. Are they just turning on, or do we only now have the vision to see them? A story for another time I'd imagine, likely unique from each perspective. As I retire by the fire, I see the garment, presumably in full this time (though on some level I know better) laying on my couch, and I begin again to tell my tale, of how I saw this Starry Night unfold.