Ripples
An abstract prose meditation on being immersed in forces we didn't choose, and the disturbances we create
We are not the observers. We are the medium.
Something lifts you. You don't know its source — a parent's unspoken pride, a stranger's cruelty that passed through someone who loved you. The wave doesn't carry a signature. You just feel it arrive.
Something sinks you. Same logic.
And you are also a disturbance. Right now, in all directions, something propagates outward from you — from the way you spoke this morning, from what you withheld, from the warmth or cold you carry into a room. It bounces off others, combines with other waves, crests into something unrecognizable from its source. You won't see where it lands.
The interference patterns are everywhere. Peaks built from troughs. Troughs from peaks. A Hitler assembled from innocent ripples. A saint — unknown, unremarkable — assembled the same way.
What wave are you riding? What are you setting in motion?