Except Everything.

I do not know much. In fact, all of my knowledge could probably be packed away into one average sized box, light enough for just one average person of average strength to carry. And I would let them carry it away if needed. I would let them take from me every fact I knew for certain, every detail I knew as truth, every explanation I had ever formed. Because none of it is why I continue.

What I like in this life, in this world, in this universe is the unexplainable. I like the way everything moves in cycles. I like the way my eyes open each morning and close each night. I like the way death replaces life, which replaces death, and I like the way life replaces death, which replaces life. I like that I don’t know if we are each given one life, or many. I like that I understand life and death equally, which is barely at all. I like the idea of infinity, but I also like the idea that our time here is precious and not to be taken for granted.

I like that everything is connected and that we are still inherently alone. I like that we are never really alone. I like that in every moment we are thinking of someone and in every moment someone is thinking of us. I like that joy in sorrow are one in the same.

I like love. I like the love between lovers, and between friends, and between family. I like the way your laugh sounds intertwined with mine, which has nothing to do with love, except everything.

I like laughter. I like how every laugh of every person is unique and the way our laughter changes each time it bursts from our lips. I like the feeling right before it erupts, and the way it makes your stomach ache, and the sense of calm it brings immediately following. I like the foolishness and severity of love, which has nothing to do with laughter, except everything.

I like art, but I don’t know why. I can’t tell you why I am drawn to certain colors or shapes or images. I can’t tell you why certain songs make me sad or happy or set my soul ablaze with emotion. I can’t tell you why some lines of poetry make me cry, or why I hug certain novels when I close their final page. Someone probably could, but I’m sure I’d rather not hear it.