There’s only one story I want to write. If I could just write this one story, then it would be more than the sum of everything I’ve written and will write. It’s like Hemingway said, about writing the truest sentence you know. I don’t know if “truest” is the right word for this story, but the suffix “st” is certainly appropriate—the biggest, the saddest, the most, the mostest, even more than the mostest. I’ve read the story myself but only a few dozen times in my life. It’s very short. And it’s not like other stories. It’s elusive. I call it a story, but it’s not. I only imagine it as such because it is my art form.  I’m not even sure that it can be made into one.

I read it just now as I was in the kitchen, making a smoothie. I reached into the jar to scoop out some powder, and there it was. My hand, my fingers, the scooper, the powder—holding space, being. Being why? Because it is. Or because I can see, feel. Do not answer that question, that endless rabbit hole of philosophy.

That we are. That is it. That is the story. But the words are not right. It is such a rough translation that a native speaker would not understand.

That we are … in a world such as this. I am not sure if the right direction is forward or backward, more words or less.

That I am. The “we” seems excessive.

I am. So did the “that.”

But gah! Those words do not tell it. Perhaps, then, the right direction is forward, more.

When I reach into the jar, I am suddenly aware that I am in control of my fingers. Around me, there is more, like my fingers, but not the same; material, but not me. The two—my body and the material world—can communicate, can dance, can cause a change in the other. I pick up the scooper by the handle, it raises in the air. I dip the scooper into the powder, it fills.

Of course, there is more—the other senses, the other ways in which our kind interacts with the material world. But again, do not fall down the rabbit hole. Stand at the edge.

It is all there! Around me, as I now sit at the table, writing. The chairs pushed in under the table, the plant and candlesticks standing in the center of the table, the light coming in the window through the open doorway beyond the far side of the table.

I can see it! If I were to stand up from my seat, I could pick up one of the candlesticks. I could walk over and close the door. I could change it. I could change what I am seeing. I could block the light from my sight.

I see something, hear something. I am able to go it, see it closer, in more detail. I can run away from a sound, until there is silence.

Smells from a bakery. I could go there. Open the door. Taste the bread.

I wish to convey the marvel of it. How do we forget? Maybe it is not possible to survive in a constant state of such rapture.

I am not concerned with the actual, the facts, the science. I am concerned with the experience.

What are the words? For the moment when I discover my own existence. When the amazement of it strikes me, especially after I have forgotten for a while.

The tragedy is that it will not be forever. I lift in the joy of finding it and then immediately fear losing it.

I will die, but while I live, oh, what a playground. What a fortunate child I am!

If I had none of it, even a string would be the world. How I would finger the string. Twist it, tie it, throw it, ball it up, stretch it, taste it, wrap it around my finger, and on and one, never bored.

But here, there is so much, like a candy shop.