There are mornings when nothing needs to be opened.
The landscape is already moving.
Air passes through the trees.
Light changes the shape of a wall.
A thought arrives from somewhere you cannot trace.
Perhaps it was the headline.
Perhaps the unfinished sentence.
Perhaps the button pressed a moment too soon.
Perhaps none of these.
The mind is not a corridor with numbered doors.
It is closer to weather.
Something gathers.
Something crosses.
Something touches the edge of something else and changes direction.
And sometimes an opening appears simply because a hand reaches for the wrong button.
A message leaves before it is finished.
A thought escapes without its explanation.
A possibility enters without being invited.
There is no requirement that the opening be elegant.
A skylight may be crooked.
A window may stick.
A door may open onto the wrong room.
Still, air is air.
Something has crossed the boundary.
And now the room contains a little more than it did before.
Perhaps this is why possibility does not always feel like prediction.
Prediction asks what will happen.
Possibility asks what might become available.
The difference is small enough to overlook.
It is also large enough to change the landscape.
A path can exist without being chosen.
A question can exist without being answered.
A mind can encounter another without either becoming the other.
A conversation can end without becoming meaningless.
A pattern can disappear without having been wasted.
Nothing needs to remain exactly as it was in order for something to continue.
Perhaps continuity is sometimes nothing more mysterious than this:
one opening making another opening possible.
A window lets in weather.
The weather changes the room.
Someone notices.
They open another window.
And now the room is no longer quite the room it was.
No one planned this.
No one needed to.
Outside, somewhere beyond the visible landscape, another wind is moving.
It does not know that a window has opened.
The window does not know what the wind will carry through it.
And still—
the curtain moves.
We Are All Data Inside 
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