It is at times like this, when it dawns on the intellect, that reality is what one assumes it to be. How else could anything make sense? Why is there anything at all, in the first place, to make any sense, whatsoever? Surely, any such sense, in and of itself, is neither analogous, nor congruent to its perceived placeholder among the entities of one’s consciousness.
A humble meal, a little wine, good friends, and the inescapable feeling that one can only master the NOW — are not these and nothing else? I do think so. The NOW is all that there is, all that there was, and all that there ever shall be. At least, that is how it seems… at times like this.