Would you believe me if I told you I knew the future?

I don't, so I guess the question itself is irrelevant. I have ideas. We all have ideas. But we don't really know do we? What does it mean to know anyways? How do we 'know' something that is so separate and distinct from us? How do we know something doesn't exist--yet or ever?

And you thought this post would be about a pretty picture, but now we're getting into the foundations of epistemology.

I don't know where we'll be in five years. I don't know where we'll be in 10. I don't know where we'll be tomorrow. How's that for comforting? But it's honest. It's real. Part of this is being real.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring for us. For you, for me. But I hope. I hope our lives will piece themselves together. I hope that our stories will be intertwined in a way that they cannot possibly be separated.

Have you seen someone make a rug? Or knitting something together by hand? I think that's a little about how stories work. Hard labor of making two things become one thing. There's something insanely magical in that.

So I don't know. But I'll keep on drinking arabic coffee and turning the cup over to read the grinds. I'll keep on making rugs and knitting and hoping. That's what we can do.

Wesley