Tic, toc, goes the sleepless clock...
“I’m not sure what I’m running
from. Nobody. Or the future. Fate. Growing up. Getting old. Picking up the
pieces. As if running we won't have to get on with our lives.”
You know how, at some point when
you run, your heart aches, your body stiffens, signals of possible cramps
coming from everywhere emerge, and the fire in your stomach spreads out upwards
ravaging into your chest… and then, just like that, passed that limit point,
everything numbs away? Any masochistic cross-country athlete probably knows
what I’m talking about. Your ears are still ringing quite a bit, but the sounds
all around you either fade out or amplify. The birds chirping, shrieking. The
leaves bristling, caressing. The wind whistling, howling, murmuring. And at
that moment, you can’t quite decide whether you feel released or more damaged.
As it goes for the physical, the
emotional isn’t too different. At some point with the constant running away,
there is a moment where I’ll be conscious of living, but where, in that slice
of life, I know that nobody and nothing will be able to make me happy. In that
slice of life, I know that nobody and nothing will be able to make me sad. That
numbness can go on to the point that the anticipation of feeling the actual
emotion will be greater than the prospect of letting it go, because the silence
of this emptiness is just so, hauntingly
peaceful. In those moments, because nothing gets through, nothing gets out, I
am tough. And that’s probably the saddest thing about me.
“Live or die.
Every breath is a choice.
Every minute is a choice.
Every time you don't throw yourself down the stairs, that's a choice. Every time you don't crash your car, you re-enlist.”
Every breath is a choice.
Every minute is a choice.
Every time you don't throw yourself down the stairs, that's a choice. Every time you don't crash your car, you re-enlist.”
If there are floating, sparkly
beings above us, no doubt we are quite a show, making every second of our life
a mistake we are trying to correct. Some say they are the wise ones, enjoying
Forbidden Fruit champagne up there and whatnot. No worries, no troubles, nada,
nothing, prout.
But humans don’t seem to want their
problems solved. Their lives fixed. “Their dramas. their distractions. Their
stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left?
Just the big scary unknown.”
And maybe that’s why we all keep
hanging on, because as long as we see what we’re gripping onto, we recognize
our surroundings. Perhaps it’s my mistrust in the future that makes it hard to
let go of the past. I read somewhere that the cloak of the past is cut from patches of feeling, and sewn with rebus
threads. Most of the time, the best we can do is wrap it around ourselves for
comfort or drag it behind us as we struggle to go on. In my case, I seem to be doing
both.
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