You could list off seven steps to financial freedom and still not have two pennies to rub together. You could follow cookbooks to the tiniest detail and somehow still burn the rice [the author is sympathetic to this notion as rice is a staple in her diet and she still seems to ruin it on a regular basis]. You could go to sleep on time and still wake up tired - you could leave for work on time and still be late. You could travel the world and never feel like you left the comfort of "home". You could do it all right and they might never see, you could yell and they might not hear, you could wait patiently and it might never arrive. We could all go through life and make our decisions based on what makes sense, ask ourselves the questions that have easy answers, put our trust and hope in Logic, and yet. I can't help but remember that still little voice inside me that marvels at the crowns of buildings knighted by the clouds, how tall they are. And all that they can see. Marvel at the way a child grows, their hands and feet, dresses that reached the ground that now only fit teddy bears and dolls. Marvel at the way the moon moves the tide, how funny that something as solid as a rock would wish to dance like a wave, and all it can do is thrash it from one shore to the other, but it is still the ocean and the moon is still in the sky... I marvel at the funny twists that Life brings us, how we could be going one specific direction, and one day there is a knock at the door and an invitation slips under it, and we are invited to embark on something that is upside down; it is opposite. It makes the room feel a little uncomfortable, and it definitely does not fit our ladders and hoops.
Yes, there is sensibility, and, as sensible people, we should follow it - then why with all of this certainty do our hearts long for the unexplainable?