I was joking when I claimed to my dad that we couldn't live in multiple parallel universes simultaneously.
But now I think we can. Because I do.
Everything that happens in my brain cannot fit into this reality. It just can't. There are inconsistencies. Time lines change. The children are young, then old. The same event has different results. Do I live in a 3-bedroom apartment, or a 4-bedroom house on an acre of land?
THIS is why I can't throw away those bottles that Chloé didn't like and the twins are too old for. Or the clothes size 3-6 months. Or the half-dead plant. Or all those scarves. Someone somewhere sometime might need them.
I suppose this is my effort at not moving on. I am generally obsessed with moving on. I say, if it's in the past, it's done. Continue into the future with another lesson learned.
Except where I can imagine an existence with some object, I can't let it go. It's become a part of me. A carcinogenic parasite with claws. Together and apart we live as mothers and writers, happy and sad, here and there, alone and the center of the universe.
So in the end I can't move on. I can't even take a step. Not even a baby step. I trip every time. I'm surrounded by clutter and treasure and dust and gold and laughter and sorrow and sweet dreams and nightmares. They stall my passage.
But in which reality? All of them? Or just one? Is it my denial of the multiplicity that hinders me? Should I close my eyes and allow my hands to move whatever obstacles are identified by my mind in whatever world it ponders?
Maybe. It's disheartening to imagine so many futures in so many lives and nothing in this one.