On The Room of Infinite Possibility

One piece of glitter shimmers where I become bankrupt at 28. Another where I achieve everything I’ve always wanted, only to realize I no longer want it.

I’m picturing the washer and dryer from Meow Wolf in New Mexico, where they open up to a galaxy-like tunnel of blue and purple gradients, glittering with stars and cosmic light. I imagine a room alive with that image—floating, breathing shards of color and light, each suspended with its own outcome. I call this the Room of Infinite Possibility. It’s the room I live in.

One piece of glitter shimmers where I become bankrupt at 28. Another, where I have so much money I leave it on car windshields. Another where I achieve everything I’ve always wanted, only to realize I no longer want it. One where I’m middle-aged, waking up every morning with the same relentless drive to advocate for my music. One where I set this dream aside and go back to school to become a doctor, and in this reality, I struggle to hear my daughter sing, worrying she might inherit my urge to market and monetize her art. There’s one where I move into a Park Slope apartment with the best man I’ll ever know. One where I work in the coffee shop around the corner, writing weekly blogs from behind the barista counter. This is the glimmer I’m in right now.

I chose to live in this room before I’d experienced enough life to understand that an infinite number of options doesn’t mean freedom; it means variety. I didn’t know that the more choices we have, the harder it is to be content with the one we settle on.

I did know, however, that an infinite number of possibilities was better than the alternative: closing the door to no possibility at all.

From the album release festival. Live water coloring by Helen Denisevich, filled with blue and purple and orange gradients. Perhaps we are our own Rooms of Infinite Possibility.