The loud drips my shower faucet creates as I turn it off—wiggling into my smiley-face slippers and dodging baby oil that fell into the shower instead of onto my legs—annoyed me more than the cold air hitting my arms as I made a desperate move toward my towel.
I often harp too long on what happened; it’s upsetting. I built up whole cities in my mind that I placed different people in, and when you set your city on fire—it lit up others, too. The ashes, though, made the soil rich. Ambivalence is a great driver for growth.
I try to draw little bats on the back of the Halloween-themed cards that I’m sending home. However, what I can draw well varies, and bats are not one of those things. The $3.99 pack of holographic American Greetings bat stickers will do.
I’m not sure if it’s ambivalence causing me to not stress over what I can’t control, or if I’ve simply given up on trying to have a say in what happens. But in a way, isn’t that still control? Or do I tell myself that to make myself feel better? Do the tears that glide down my left cheek and onto the top shoulder of my tan men’s extra large t-shirt mean anything more than sadness? It means I’m here. It means I’m trying, and trying is all that I and anyone else has got. But if my trying leaves me in tears, and yours leaves you with laughter—what exactly am I doing wrong? Where on this trail did I make the wrong turn? It took me two separate visits and four separate trails to find the Blue Hole at Sugar Hollow. So I know I can turn the wrong way at least three times, but I feel like I’m on my fiftieth.
It means I’m trying, and trying is all that I and anyone else has got. But if my trying leaves me in tears, and yours leaves you with laughter—what exactly am I doing wrong?
I put on two pairs of fuzzy socks last night as a cold gripped my lungs. I made Annie’s mac ‘n cheese. I stared at my computer for two hours, trying to write up one email. I’m very, very good at saying a lot of nothing, and I hate that. But I’m also very good at listening to a lot of something, so it evens out.
I meticulously pick out my outfit for the next day; it’s fun. The joys of vanity pay out ten fold when I can make everything match and flow and say something. Will my purple cloud sunglasses be my defining piece? Will I put little shiny butterflies in my lashes?
In the timeline that I recall, which is different than yours, I was last wrapping presents in front of a warm fireplace. My messy wrapping on the last present symbolized what was to come—I always miss symbols the first time around.
Last Friday I saw her, and hugged her, and it shook me to my core. I was already sniffling in jeans that were two sizes too big and a sweatshirt I was trying my best to hide under, just trying to get some Campbell’s Soup. I got a little more than I bargained for—I’m not upset, though. I do love hugs.
I still have a little circular scar below my right kneecap where the skin is lighter than the rest. How silly I was to try and help you get things out of your car. Being soft and warm was my role, being an iniquitous actor towards me was yours.
How comforting it is to know that in three months, I’ll be in a different place. How frightening, too.
What brings me comfort is that I never know what my life will look like in three months’ time. I have a few things I can be sure about, but the rest floats about me like the leaves that fall at my feet on my way to class. How comforting it is to know that in three months, I’ll be in a different place. How frightening, too.
I once had a wood watch engraved with the big dipper in mind. That constellation, I looked to it on my nightly excursions for fresh air—it was like coming home without a welcome. What once was inviting was now something I looked at in the hope that the connection would be severed, like Icarus’ wax wings melting; mine were frozen solid.
I’ve been wanting to watch the sunset on top of Culbreth again, like I used to, and so I went alone. I tried to imagine coming up here again in three months, what I would be trying to let go and trying to grab. I took deep breaths, and in the 20 minutes I was up there alone before the rest of the sunset chasers started to rev their engines to make it around the inclined corner—I felt some kind of warm comfort, and sadness. How fleeting the orange hues were. All of the laughter around me started to emphasize my physical loneliness standing awestruck on the concrete, so I got in my car. But a tap on my window startled me. A compliment was given, the corners of my mouth upturned, and a giggle fell out between my lips. I actually wasn’t alone up there, they saw me as I saw them.
Everything is fleeting. I keep trying to remind myself that if I believe everyone has the best intentions behind their actions, then I’ll be happier. The claiming of the presents I wrapped was to keep the peace, the lying was to protect themselves—everyone needs protection, right? But I’ve never once wrapped my knuckles.
