Where We Are and Aren’t
Hiiiii, hey there.
Do I exist anymore?
Fine, fine. Pinch me.
Confirm what we both already knew:
I’m still here.
Still asking myself ridiculous questions about existence because folks, this is the type of thing that happens to one who loves digging herself into holes from which she can only escape with a toe-curling, bicep-ripping climb.
But hey. I like biceps; I like rips. I even like toes…sometimes.
Did you know, in fact, that without creating little micro-rips in our muscles, they will not grow?
As a true devotee of fitness, I like to take this fact and run. Do bigger rips equal bigger growth?
(No, Megg, they equal torn ACLs.)
Fine, fine. But I flirt with the notion anyway.
Case in point:
For a moment there, I let come apart all the stitching I told myself was holding things in place. Everything—everything—fell off the wagon. Meditation, daily writing (for the first time since September!), reading, fitness.
All of them. Just slipped away from an active routine as though they never existed at all.
Turns out I’m alright. I’m fast with a restitch. Fast enough, at least.
Still, why put myself through the ringer?
It seems, simply put, that I find a perverse enjoyment in putting myself up to the test of climbing out of that big ol’ hole we talked about.
Maybe I needed to call bullshit on myself. Take it all away and see how long it’d be before I ran back with my arms flailing around saying, “wait, wait—I made a mistaaake!”
Or maybe I wanted to see if I’d run back at all.
An easy sprint and I’ve caught up with the person—that little brat—who just loooves to test herself.
Like a love affair gone sour, you bump into the spaces once filled and wave your hand through the air before you, telling yourself that if it’s not there anymore, maybe it was never there at all.
They were there, and I’m still here, and it turns out everything is fine.
The coy side of me thinks it was all good fun.
The inner-parent wants me to scold myself for my latency and disobedience, while the inner-grandmother wants to push my hair off my forehead and tell me that I’m doing fine, it was just a week.
To whom do I listen? Eh, neither.
It’s a thing that happened, an absence with fullness that I’m sewing in as a shimmery-grey into the tapestry.
I’ll pass a thumb over it every once in awhile to catch the strangeness of its texture, and then I will return to my day.
Thanks for sticking with me. Thanks especially to this person who created the image below and made me feel like I existed in a world that wasn’t so gargantuan.
I’m trying to be specific about the strange detachment of the past week, but maybe this post is just hieroglyphs.
Does any make sense to you? Leave a comment, bub.