The visions of grand things that have clouded my brain for years and years have dissolved into a task-to-task existence. I feel the heartbeat of my dreams softening and fading. I have been through near-death experiences, I’ve experienced loss, I’ve survived lost and unrequited loves, but this–this, I feel, could be the tragedy of my life.
And I will do anything and everything in my power to rewrite my story.
I could do the thing that writers of a certain era did, which is to apologize for the overuse of “I” and “me,” as if the use of the personal pronoun would distance you from my story. But, when I think about real life, every story I tell my friends is filled with “I’s” and “me’s,” and even “You’s” as I project all the witty clapbacks and, in fact, truthful feelings that I wish I would say to all the perpetrators in my life. So, I’m going to go ahead and trust you, my audience, treat you like the smart, capable, and dare I say imaginative beings that you are, and act like I’m relaying this story to you over a cup of coffee. Well, maybe a few cups of coffee.
How best to say this–do you know when you’re on a long car ride, sitting in traffic, and you’ve gotten past the anxiety, and the media, and the honking of other vehicles has ceased, and we’ve all just given in to the fact that we’re going to sit here for a bit? In that moment, your eye notices the creases in the printed pattern of the dashboard, the rubber faux-leather design, or the direction of stitching in the upholstery of the seats. Interwoven. Interconnected. I love those moments. I feel like I used to feel as a kid. Charmed by a stinkbug slowly ambling its way up that one taller blade of grass that wasn’t literally mowed down with the rest. Hearing the crunch of the dirt and the grass as I tread. Toss in whatever other cliché thoughts of childhood that seem to ring true to you. It just feels pure. Pure observation, and thought-filled wonder–I guess? Those moments are just too far and few between now.
I miss excitement. I’ve always been praised for my steadfastness, being even-tempered, cool heads will prevail and all that, but is it right to praise someone for being unaffected and bored?
I tried to ask myself “what will make me happy?” one night, and that night led to two or three weeks of contemplating thousands of things or sayings, or pathways, or journeys, which all came up fruitless. “Fruitless.” I’ve seen that word a lot lately, and it’s odd how it’s now coming from my own mouth.