Synchronicity

Eleora McConnell

1d

This is brilliant. I’ve enjoyed it very much.🫶🏼

Thank you Eleora

Really enjoyed this poem — each line was so powerful. The sound & rhythm was so so effective.

Thank you Kaila

Beautifully haunting piece. “A destiny passing the other way / Exiting as I entered” stayed with me. <3

Thank you Petra

Amazingly awesome and such a creative piece of life on this world and the way everything is with each individual walking their own path, learning from experience, and coincidences that could be ironically associated but could also be just a coincidence. Thank you for writing and sharing your work. I love reading your writings- your poetry and all. You’re definitely an artist and inspiration. ❤️🤗😊🙏🌸

Thank you so much Tammy, that means a lot

There’s something beautiful and unsettling in the suggestion that consequence moves far beyond what can be visibly traced.

Thank you Suzanne

This feels like a ripple, quiet, strange, and strangely familiar. Beautifully put.

Thank you Sunshine

That was beautiful mate!!

Thank you

You welcome mate do take care and have a good one!!

For me there’s a quiet non-duality threading through this, whether you intended it or not.

Not in the obvious metaphysical gestures: “prisms,” “refractions,” “fate”but in the way identity refuses to stay contained. The toddler, the old man, Véronique, Weronika… they don’t feel like separate lives so much as different apertures of the same seeing. As if experience is moving, changing costumes, but never actually dividing.

Vedanta would say: the fragmentation is persuasive, but not real. The wave keeps insisting it is many, while the water remains one.

And yet, you don’t let that become comfort.

Because the poem keeps returning to consequence. The jellyfish sting, the missed glance, the car, the phone call, the almost-meeting. If this is all one field, then nothing is trivial. Every gesture echoes because there is nowhere else for it to go. Karma not as moral accounting, but as continuity; action folding back into the same fabric that produced it.

What holds me is that question beneath your questions: if all of this is one unfolding, why does it feel like loss?

Weronika mourning Véronique reads less like alternate timelines and more like the self grieving its own unlived configurations. Not “what could have been” in a casual sense. but something sharper: recognition without access.

The door image matters there. Choice enters, but not as absolute freedom, more like a hinge within a pre-existing structure. You can turn it, or not, but the house is already built.

So the tension stays: unity without relief, multiplicity without true separation.

If anything, the poem doesn’t resolve into Vedanta, it unsettles it. Because even if all is one, the experience of being this particular node of it, this body, this timing, this missed crossing, still carries weight. Still wounds.

And maybe that’s where your poem lands: not on illusion vs truth, but on the unbearable intimacy of both being true at once.

Thank you Dipti. We can see what we almost had, but how many of us have the capacity to really let it go, with the blithe indifference of a god?

Not indifference. That’s the human misreading of distance.

What you call “letting go” is often just exhaustion dressed as grace. And what you call “holding on” is sometimes the last honest refusal to pretend it didn’t matter.

A god doesn’t forget because it is above. It forgets because nothing ever quite lands.

We are not built that way.

We remember precisely because it marked us. And the mark is the meaning, not the clean release from it.

Reply

Share