"Don’t tell me or it won’t happen."

I just turned one of those bold, round numbers that invites metaphysical thoughts about Time. Waking up at forty, I find myself in a body that feels healthy. From here, the past doesn’t look effortless: waking at six, workouts, repetitions, injuries, recoveries. But it does feel contingent. Perhaps a future version of me wished it so. Maybe a wish is not something that happens in the future, but something that selects a past.

Not an injection of energy, but a constraint on what histories are allowed, a pressure that filters the trajectories that can lead to this moment. There has to be a sequence of events that leads to the arrangement of me now. Perhaps this is the only history that survives the constraint of a wish I would one day impose: that I be well.

If so, thanks.

https://wiki.xxiivv.com/site/now