I fold the world inside-out with the smooth ease of wrist-flicking, I climb out of this hole with cuts and bruises but I get out and that’s all that matters. I set fire to the world and walk just fast enough to keep it nipping at my heels, tarring my skin, scarring me a little if I bothered to look. I skate over thin ice as if I slowed down I could walk on water, but there is no grace to it, because I am focused only on the goal, which is to get myself out of here. In moments of desperation, when grief builds up, when panic rings through my whole body and I am forced to listen, when I am forced to hear soprano voice nastily ringing the need for self-realization and how little self-preservation I have left, I am set in motion and I can’t stop.
Idleness does me good even if I think it does my body bad. My mind will race into every corner, flick at all specks in the dust, try to find solutions with only sticks, stones, and other weapons that are meant to break me. Idleness sets me into a run, a sprint towards an only goal of getting away from Here. Getting away from the Idleness, from what I find too difficult to look at, to escape the grief, to spin around enough times that I’ll be different when I examine myself once again.
It has been a year and this still hurts. It’s futile in so many ways. I have gone on walks, gone on bike rides, hiked mountains and fallen down valleys of emotions to try to come to some closure that I can’t seem to zip up completely. I have come to terms with the fact that I equated my happiness, my self-worth, my everything to his approval of me, to his decision to stay. That this was not my fault and yet I can’t swallow this statement no matter how many times I knock it back like a shot. It just comes back up and I’m retching, and I am a mess, and I don’t know whether or not I simply cannot accept this truth or I will not accept it. That there is someone better, just like what happened with J, that there is someone that I am absolutely not, and that is the reason. That is the reason I am here on my bed, writing what is basically a paragraph designed for some love letter whose recipient cannot be found, whose address always bounces back. But maybe once you lick the stamp one too many times, it will stop sticking and you’ll stop trying to send it. Is that even a good thing in the end?
I am in a search for excellence. I am exhausted. I am always exhausted, but now I am very physically exhausted. I have large, tall goals in the stratosphere that are shielded by the clouds and I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m not sure what to make of this big dream, I am not sure how I will handle failure. I am not even sure how I will handle attaining the goal, of getting past one goal post in an enduring and long road to success. I want to leave, I have ten million paths I want to pursue, and I find it difficult to choose because they all get me to the same goal of escaping Here, even though they all lead to different destinations. I cannot stay, I have said it for so long, but when is the right time to leave? Is it Now? Is it because I am in fight-or-flight and I will fight anything and anyone to get the hell out of this town. It’s not that I think I’m too good for this town even though I may have thought this when I was younger. I realize now that I must get away to preserve whatever sanity is left in my body, that I am slowly going insane and haven’t noticed it because it has been a slow degeneration, it has been the slowest dying.
I have read so many books, randomly selected and recommended, and boiled down to it, they are all about moving on with your life, going forward, exploring the world or another part of you. And what is keeping me in this city? Just my ambition, just my willingness to leave. But my feet are pounding pavement right now, and I can’t stop, I dare not stop, I cannot stop if I want to survive, if I want to move on from this grief, if I want to go somewhere else. I am lost, but at least running will get me somewhere. I will not run in circles, and with that, I will compromise by allowing myself to fall. I am not shaking but my body knows, it knows that I cannot stay here, it knows that I need to get on the highway and gun 80 out of this town. I know it too. I know it too.
I’ve been frustrated by the success of others, only because I don’t see any of that in myself. I have big goals, but have had such difficult in getting there. I’m not sure where I’m going wrong, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. So I go back to my old pony tricks and hope one of them sticks, and they never stick for long.
I hope that the next time I write, I won’t be so anxious, my muscles won’t be so tense, I won’t have this need to escape. Maybe the next time I write, I will have some news to assuage you.