Like a roulette ball finding its slot, his mind seemed to independently seek out conundrums to obsess over. It began innocently enough; he was a professor. His young students had a way of asking those kind of questions that people of learning never bother with. Out-of-the-blue. Like most other teachers, he stood before his class confident that he could handle anything they threw at him; he knew his stuff. They don't hand out PhD's in physics to just anybody, he'd occasionally remind himself. But invariably, someone would ask a question that sounded simple on the surface, yet he'd discover that he'd never given it much thought, just assumed. Like: why doesn't the electron fall into the nucleus of an atom? He knows now; he had to sit down in his office to think about it, bring up old files in his memory, plus look in reference books for corroboration and clarification. But at the time, he had not a clue, drew a blank--in front of the whole class.

Wanting to avoid such future embarrassments, he'd sit for hours in his low-lit living room trying to imagine the most trivial-sounding and fundamental concepts and ideas. Whatever a young, uncluttered mind might conjure. When he found one he was unsure of or had never delved deeply into during his school years, he'd research it to infinite detail and etch it into his mind. Nonetheless, it would still happen that a student would ask a question that put him on the spot, stupefied. His colleagues who experienced similar occurences would laugh them off, but not him. He took it to heart out of all proportion and as a result began to doubt himself, his knowledge, and mental ability. Along with this uncertainty came fear and anxiety. More than once he concocted excuses for skipping a class, handing it off to a fellow teacher for the day while he went out to his wooded, summer cabin, away from the city and his one-story house.

The term finally ended, but not his preoccupation with questions. He informed his chairman and the administration he was in need of a sabbatical, a year, at least. He had tenure, so there was no problem. He cleared out his office and retired to his cabin in the woods, and thought of questions. Formless mass interacting with form? Is there an end, an infinitesimal smallness, to how tiny something can be? Why would space want to increase in size? If the size of the universe is limitless, what is it expanding into?

Questions initiates would ask for which he had no ready answers. But he recognized them as ideas only, simple ideas in a universe vastly more complex than any human imagination could grasp. So, with an act of will, he dismissed them and chose instead to focus on the present, to unwind, to go for walks in his private forest. The weather was balmy, the sun capturing all the nuances as he meandered, noticing new growth, wild flowers, and how thick the brush was getting. And the trees, full with changing greens. Occasionally, he'd spot a deer or hear the chittering of a squirrel. The birds sang their songs, expressing their moods, spreading the news of the day.

One morning, coffee cup in hand, as he passed one of his favorite cedars, he reached out to feel its luxurious moss when it struck him. Unbidden, the thought surfaced; leaning against the tree, he was transfixed, frozen in time. He knew he was unable to actually touch anything due to the electromagnetic field covering all material reality, but he'd never given it much thought before. He stared at the moss and pushed his hand into it, wanting more than anything in the world to know what it really felt like. He understood the explanations: its texture--the friction of its topology; its softness--yielding readily, a result of its chemistry and atomic lattice arrangement; its look of varying shades of green--photons reflecting in those wavelengths.

He stood back and sipped coffee. He sensed its warmth and flavor on his tongue--thermodynamics, biochemical reactions, smell. The cup felt heavy in his hand; its atoms so close together. How could he possibly hold it? He tossed what was left and dropped his arm to his side, expecting the handle to break from the force of the Earth's gravity.

Touch, he thought, what could be more basic than that? Fearful of a panic attack, he opened himself up to his surroundings, which now seemed strangely remote. Without the EM field, he would fall to the center of the Earth, a horrible death. Without it, there would be no molecules of life, no living things or planet for them to grow on. He would drop into the realm of whatever dark matter is or means. Somewhere along the line, electromagnetism was born, our creator, distilled out as the universe cooled--or slowed--and evolved. We touch matter directly when in the womb and at death, when the cells of our bodies disintegrate down to their fundamental particles, dissolving into the background. But we can never know it, be conscious of it. Is that where this interminable longing comes from? This desperate need to actually feel belonging? To be a part of something larger than ourselves? When we do so with another, are we transcending that barrier?

He let the cup fall to the grass and made his way to the shallow slope that led to his stream. He heard it before he saw it, its banks concealed by summer growth. Standing on the bank, he watched the movement of the cold mountain water languidly track its bed to the sea. He imagined each and every individual molecule jostling with its neighbors, merging the chaos into a coherent whole, moving as one, a continuous body, stuck together yet separate and alone, never knowing that they are so.

Feeling a chill, an updraft from the stream, he became suddenly agitated. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply the smell of fresh snowmelt and tasted the slight hint of silt on the back of his throat. The passing of the stream as it cascaded over exposed rocks was the only sound; he followed it. But his mind, his emotions, resisted letting go; his body, tense and unresponsive. Short of diving in, he wanted to be the stream, wanted to be the size of a molecule sharing in the cavorting and rubbing, rollicking in the turmoil and turbulence. The stream optimized its route by reducing its resistance. Following the path of least resistance, he thought. A niche of opportunity guided its way. In the winter, when the rains came, it would increase in volume and intensity, altering its shape, flooding the banks. He could see where it cut into the hills on both sides, but even so, it still pursued the path of least resistance, it was its nature. And by doing so, it ran free with maximum power. Ultimately, it had only one course, one principle to live by, made only one decision, and stuck to it.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice that the stream had grown louder, bubbling over rocks, slipping faster between crevices. If I hold on really tight to what I'm supposed to do, he thought, follow the rules of what's expected and stay within those lines, everything will work out, my goals and dreams will come true. But what assurances do I have that that's the right thing to do? That my goals are what I really want? What if I choose not to pursue them? Who will I be then? What will I lose?

The tumult of the stream was all around him, his body felt light, buoyant. Fearful of abandonment, his mind filled with anxiety and doubt. If he let it go, could he ever find it again? Would he lose his mind? Had he not already done so? His reason for the sabbatical tried to focus, but it remained vague and reticent. Avoidance only, he now believed. I seek to run away from my own mind, he mumbled. Then he laughed: how is that possible?

When he was a young man, he quit school for a year and traveled across the country with a backpack and little money. He had no fear, went wherever his heart wanted to go. Met people on the road doing the same thing. It was a different world than the one he knew in the big city where he grew up. He believed he was doing the right thing, no compromises, no uncertainty. He read books on philosopohy and psychology, deconstructed ingrained perceptions and practiced emotions, experimented with reacting differently than habits dictated. He desired nothing more or less than total individual freedom, to be in the here and now, experiencing it for its own sake and for what it had to offer. He learned. Life was a celebration of life and the universe knew itself through him. Consequently, it was his cosmic duty, his birthright--the fundamental imperative.

The sensation of holding back, of being constrained within the limits of his skin abruptly vanished. He wavered, almost losing balance and falling into the stream. Immersed in unhindered sureness, he found the corridors, the secret passageways of his mind beneath the surface of reality. A strange and exhilarating freedom surged through him as when a child playing. He recalled when he was a kid and he and his friends snuck onto a trolley by hiding behind a few adults talking to the driver. The passengers laughed and the driver may have known, but they found seats and hunkered down to their destination. That's how it was, weaving in and out behind the scenes, free of responsibilites, watching what adults did and how they acted as though in another world.

As an adult himself, he had come to imagine, with sincerity and a sense of righteousness and truth, that he was living a life of fulfillment and meaning. The validation to him was the feeling of purpose that came with it. But he could see more clearly now. Separated from reality by the thinnest of possible membranes, he, in truth, was living in a parallel world supported by an acceptable set of principles justifying his actions. An identity, artificially manufactured; an artifact of the mind. To let it go would result in... what? Confusion? Chaos? Disintegration? He'd been living a life that he only imagined; how could he evermore trust himself knowing this?

Is there an actual? A real life we live but cannot see? Refuse to see for fear it may entrap us in a world from which there is no escape? Or are simply not equipped to see? Is anything we do for whatever reason as good as any other as far as real goes?

How do emotions transcend the EM barrier? he asked himself. How do we share emotions? Through entanglement? To seek freedom by forcibly disentangling; how could that be right? The freedom he envisioned and sought was based on a clear grasp of the nature of reality. But if he did not know all the answers, how could he ever realize it? And if he did, if that miracle were to happen, what then? To be an autonomous island unto oneself at the cost of losing everything of meaning, betraying trust in the name of living truthfully, acting without guilt or shame or embarrassment, only to be stricken later with the full force of regret when reality sets in? Rationalizing every act of selfishness by belief that the universal spirit demands it, at any cost?

Suddenly, all sound ceased. The stream, the birds, his breathing. The feel of the air on his face and hands vanished. Alarmed, he opened his eyes, only to meet total darkness. Terrified, he grabbed at his chest but felt nothing; rubbing his hands down his body was an act of will without consequence--he found emptiness only. His one sensation was of softly, but vigorously, being pushed and pulled in all directions simultaneously. He was adrift, but on what, he couldn't say.

He could see it--the Ideal--absolute freedom from the very notion of inhibition. The will to be--superceding principle and morality. It was a joke! A lie. An impossible paradox from which there is no return.

His thoughts began to fade like snow crystals in the sun, melting away. He was lost, forever, aware only and nothing more, floating on a sea he could never know. He fought and struggled in the pitch black, the soundless, tasteless, empty darkness. He was a senseless animal, a primordial beast in a trap. But he felt no muscles aching to be free, no heavy breathing from the exertion, no sweat dripping down his face. Refusing to surrender to the unrelenting nothingness, he eventually became aware of a sense of concentrated energy. Sensation without percept, he couldn't tell if he was the cause or if it came from his surroundings, whatever that may be. He pressed on, time had no meaning. Suddenly, he emerged into the light. He could hear and see the stream, birds flitted about, the air was fresh and warm and smelled of mountain granite.

He dropped to his knees and pushed his hands into the earth, working his fingers. It was hard and cool to the touch, granular with tiny stones. He threw a clump into the water; it flew apart, scattering into irregular shapes and sizes. They floated briefly, then sank in steps as the current ferried them along. An updraft caught him about mid-chest, making him shiver. He laughed at the effrontery, then rose to his feet.

He tossed a twig into the now boisterous stream, a passenger heading out to sea. He turned towards the slope and deliberately made his way laboriously in order to feel his leg muscles working together, contracting and expanding. When he neared the top, his back was wet with perspiration; drips fell from his forehead, one landed on his lips; he tasted the saltiness of it and smiled.

He walked into his grassy yard and retrieved his cup, which now weighed practically nothing, and stood, taking it all in. No longer were all the living things around him distant and aloof. Quite the opposite, in fact. He felt snuggly squeezed into the middle of everything else that lived, tightly enveloped and embraced, like a molecule of water in a stream. He still couldn't directly touch anything, but that didn't matter anymore. Without the EM fields, there would be no life, no anything. All would be formless, black emptiness, devoid of surfaces. Waves of electromagnetism saturating the entire universe, photons racing to and fro, requiste ingredients for all of nature to organize and manifest by some unspoken word. What came first, the electron or the field it generates? Would a field induce pure energy to form an electron, a niche ready to be filled, calling forth and precipitating the creation of a basic matter particle? Or, did some portion of dark matter mutate and adapt to this surface dimension, this visible, photon-rich matter realm?

He didn't know, couldn't guess. It was all or nothing. But he was through with obsessions, to wanting to know what lay behind the curtain. Passionate inquiry into the nature of reality, to understand--albeit, through a human lens--how the cosmos works is one thing; a desperate, unquenchable need to prove self-worth by knowing the mind of God, quite another. He was a creature of limitations, without which he wouldn't exist nor would the universe he could see and know in some small measure. They were surveyers--humans--mapping out what they could of the forever ineffable.

His cat, Mariah, came to him and rubbed against his leg, purring. He picked her up and gave her a kiss, feeling her fur on his cheek, then put her down gently. The sun was warm, he welcomed it.

The following day he returned to campus. Summer session was on; he wanted to be a part of it, to join in and help where he could. Beings of starstuff, creatures of light, life in the light was short; he didn't want to miss any of it.