Stand in the pathway of giants before your time and feel the
aether pulse.
There's the view that the universe is unfeeling and uncaring. It comforts, sometimes, to know that any wrongness is the result of sheer statistics and nothing more - nothing personal in it and no grudge held against you in the warp and weft of reality, but humans know better somewhere in their bones. Inside their Chomskyan deep structures, the bits of experiential logic that interface between the coldness of reality and the warm bright icicles of the soul, we know that there is, in face, a weather to the world in which we live. We can feel it, if we can't see it; we know it, if we can't explain it.
It's not always dim or dark. Sometimes it's fucking glorious.
Have you ever, in a moment of otherworldly time, known that what you did met with the universe's approval?
You have, believe me. You may have known it by a different name, or a different picture in your mind, but it was there. It isn't a thought or a recognition.
Some people spend their lives in search of that moment, seek to stretch it, push it, taffy, out to cover the entirety of their experience and to wrap themselves in it like a blanket. Others will seek to meet the peaks in staccato shrines of absolute synchrony with spacetime, to be experienced in tiny slices too intense to prolong and then savored in the hours, months or years in between.
Bring the car from around the curve into an invisible line that rests only within your mind. The pavement is new, the road untried - the car itself, perhaps, untested. And yet you'll know, know, when you find the groove. There will be a snap and the hum of resonance as your self and steed slip down into the spatial stream that's waited there for you - who knows how long? You just know you're there.
Find the chord (finally) to punctuate the tune, just the right amount of feedback coming from the Carver as the axe sings out exhausted triumph into the dark of empty tables and melting ice in glasses left abandoned. Not the singer, not the song, not the seats nor space that vibrates (finally) in that note you've sought - but something's there.
On the fifth or fifteenth touch and go, something's different. Something that you couldn't name, but this time the grumbling shit-beat rental Cessna decides enough's enough and recognizes that you're not kidding, and this time the tires touch the tarmac with nary a single squeal of dismay as they begin to roll, the airplane stalling off the last of its flight just as the weight settles onto the wheels.
Or - God help you - you stutter past the lump inside your throat despite that the dinner's gone all wrong and you've spilt your coffee on your shirt, just wanting to escape the evening with your sanity, but in spite of all that can be expected - she smiles, and the planets turn.
These are the signs that once in a time the universe too can beat the odds, and once in a great fucking while, it will turn in your favor.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe.