Written last week.
Sometimes it’s very difficult to deal with life’s unanswered questions. You wake up one morning and they feel heavier than they did the day before… the slow drip of time more like a labyrinthine slog. What you feel is not as concrete as “unhappy,” but, rather, a salad of restlessness, anxiety, and potential excitements that you’re forced to keep at arm’s length. It’s a comedown of sorts, but one that’s not relaxing—the inevitable breakthrough of heavy questions you must ignore regularly to survive. Walking around with all that’s unknown just won’t do, you must un-know all that you don’t know, too.
These questions wouldn’t leave me alone yesterday, rendering me bleary-eyed and lethargic, unsure of the simplest things in light of those that are more complex. I spent the day trying to run away from them only to learn they’re in better shape—trained in getting unwanted attention. Sifting through them felt a bit like a typewriter under my skin had stopped, shooting out nothing but blank pages, with all the terror that such barrenness delivers.
I tried to fill each one up but nothing stuck—none of the career paths, romances or familial joys that are supposed to. Everything slipped shoddily across the pages and left me, again, with a giant void. I squirmed until I fell asleep, needing to dose off all that mystery. When I woke up there were no answers, only a better drowning out of the questions.
I went and sat on my roof, sticking my face in the sun, thumbing through a book, knowing nothing of what I’m doing or who I might love or what and where I might be in a year. These questions still danced around, still purred a bit in each ear, but seemed less daunting amongst the empty expanse of rooftops and skyscraper silhouettes—structures much larger than me and my speck of history. Recognizing this had its comforts (however trite), with the bounty of the outside world like a warm compress to place on the migraine of having (almost) nothing to lose.