Somewhere high above and far away, the onlookers, the keepers of life, keep an eye on our game. In their ledgers they write in long looping lines; what we did this morning, this afternoon, this evening, for all of our time.
Notes are made and lists are ticked. And through this they log the things we’ve done, the people met, the wishes created, and the dreams dashed. All tallied and totalled in boxes below; the only thing that really matters in those great landscapes of notes, written just so.
Totals, that is how we live our lives. In numbers of the normal things, probable things, impossible things! Normal things regularly ticked by the minute, so bland, something so uninteresting in these everyday acts. The probable things, again so regular, but at least hint at surprise. Something unwieldy, acting in the spaces between lives.
But the impossible things, there’s the rub. The things almost never to be seen, so rare, that the box remains unfilled for most. Today though, it has been ticked. The keeper cannot think for why, what had they felt that made their hand move so?
Who was this person for whom impossible happened today? Were they so special, or were they just the same. Was this thing impossible only for them? Or impossible for all? Whatever the answer, it was impossible nonetheless.
The box has been ticked, and the keeper of records, that sits on high, puts down her pen and stops. What has happened, down below? She touches the mark she has made, she has never felt so small, and ached so much to play the game.