Sunday the 3rd

There’s a lump in my throat. A hole in my cashmere sweater. I am sitting alone and wonder “how did I get here?”

Have you ever felt breathlessness as an act of self preservation? As if you restricted yourself of such a vital habit for long enough that you’ll—by some miraculous means—wake on the other side, unscathed in your unbridled survival? 

In all honesty, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ve been burned and abandoned by none other than myself. I’ve spent years with broken bones—a broken brain—hoping that one day it’ll fall into place. Granted, I did my part in assisting these efforts. I sobered up, I returned to therapy. I started putting my consciousness first in relationships; and asking for that which I deserved. But life split open between that time and now. No one instance or moment can be pinpointed as the catalyst—and let it be known: I take full accountability for the destruction and reconstruction of my life—but I can think of a handful of people or experiences that contributed to the downfall of my once-balanced world. Sure, there’s a bitterness in this admittance. But it’s less outwardly, onto those which cast such misfortune; and more inward, for allowing myself to be so susceptible to the actions of others. 

At the acknowledgement of an emotional state, my mind goes blank. My entire body empties. 

-

Days later, I’m sat in an inconspicuous manner. Left to my own devices, yet again, I unexpectedly biked two miles in the early aughts of the morning. The sun is still rising in the distance, my skin still frigid and reddened by the temperature. My temperment. I wonder what it is to be left unaffected by the world about. Funnily enough, I know little to nothing of this world; yet it wishes to disarm me with the sweetest subtleties. And I let it. Cause what clue do I, at twenty-two, have of this world and its boundlessness? I used to think centuries of living had nothing on me… but what if it has everything on me?

Isn’t it comical how we’re thrown into this world on the basis of survival? For most any other species, the mere act of existence is enough to warrant our survival tactics. But for us, and our sentience? We’ve not only constructed the working world out of the nothingness of our own purpose; but we’ve also suggested that our emotional intelligence calls for complexity in relationships outside of our immediacy. Surely, we have the strength to balance the practicality with the intricacies of desire—but aren’t we still missing the point? As with any other species, shouldn’t our focus be to instill harmony on this planet, then subsequently find the same contentment within? 

For years now, I’ve longed to exist in the mundanity of the day to day. I caught a glimpse of this life during the lockdown of 2020 and let the high get to my head. I would wake with the sun, would write with the breeze. As the clouds passed and the days converged, so would my thoughts. Guided by neighborhood walks and tending to the gardens of my room and yard, I found meaning in the mere act of growing. The process of breaking through and splitting apart. 

After all this time, I’m back where I started. A little more seasoned, a little less sure. Isn’t that the glory of restarting? To release your inhibitions, feel the rain on your skin? To know no matter what you’ve done, it only matters what you do now, where you go. 

I’m going away for a while.