Maybe it had been a long day, a long week, maybe even a long month. Maybe she had been awake too long, but mostly she was angry, furious even…bewildered at how lost she felt when only yesterday everything seemed to make such perfect sense. Mostly she was scared. Fucking terrified. She didn’t know what she was doing with her life anymore or why she was doing it. She was having a hard time even remembering who she was.
It was creeping up fast. Chasing her as she ran to her car. She didn’t even put on her seatbelt, she just slammed her foot down on the gas and she was gone. She could have just gone home, she knew the way. But she didn’t. Maybe she’d end up wrapped around a tree and they’d have to make an announcement the next day, but that seemed completely irrelevant. All that mattered was the dark road ahead of her because that’s the only thing that didn’t scare her right now. The dark. The dark seemed so comforting compared to the thoughts that raced through her mind, taunting her with every back road turn she took.
And then she began to cry. She cried for her pathetic self and her pathetic decisions, the tough girl act she put on everyday. She cried because she was tired of pretending she was so put together and so sure of herself and she cried because until right there in that moment, she hadn’t even realized that it was an act. She cried because she felt vulnerable and she felt alone and she felt unwanted and she felt far away from everything and everyone.
And then she cried so hard that she couldn’t see the road in front of her anymore and it was like the whole world was nothing but a blurry water color picture. She got out of her car and ran. It was cold and dark but that didn’t matter and she ran until she reached the water. She looked at the sky and thought about all the people under that same starry blanket and then her head hurt from thinking so much so she ran into the water until it was over her head and it was freezing but that didn’t matter because it made her numb and she just wanted to not feel for a moment.
And then she closed her eyes and thought about all of them, and thought about the trees and the grass and campfires and the smell of smoke on his sweatshirt and the lady bullfrogs croaking to the dude bullfrogs and playing in the sand and her license test and Aunt Laurie’s casserole and holding a newborn baby and their first sleepover and getting ice cream all over her shirt and laying on the couch and the pouring rain and sliding through the mud and throwing paint. That first car accident, winning the 8th grade poetry contest, moving into the dorm, singing the apples and bananas song in kindergarten, her first kiss, the way her heart used to race when he brushed her hand, the smell that lingered after the rain.
It was all so wild and stupid and random and beautiful. She wanted to be held in that moment, but the water was holding her and then she put her arms around her shoulders and held herself. She missed being small and fragile and comforted. It didn’t make her that sad but she cried more anyway. She cried for her beautiful mother and her terribly lost father. For all the lives she wasn’t living and all the love she gave away. Maybe she didn’t have much more to give anymore. So much of it was wasted. The truth was, she gave most of it away a long time ago and never really got it back. And now she handed all that was left of it out like one cent candies.
But most of all she cried because she knew that when she woke up tomorrow, all of these realizations would seem meaningless to her. She would put on her disguise and continue on not feeling.
Hell, maybe it’s better way.
I haven’t been here in nearly 2 years. Why would I be? I came here to think. I came here to write. Is it a coincidence that I stopped writing when you left? Of course not. Because writing is thinking. Writing is thinking, seeing, questioning on paper. You left. So did my thoughts. You were my impulse. Your very existence transcended to the actuation of my thoughts. My ever so constant, biting need to answer questions that could not be answered. You inspired my curiosity. You inspired my words. You inspired me. And then you were gone. And my thoughts went silent.
I grasp to collect any trace of eloquent speech in my head. I don’t remember anymore. I don’t write anymore. I can’t. The words do not come, and so I will accept the penalty. My words will come without grace.
I think simply, and so I am happy. It seems that so many are so unhappy. It is because they think too much. People who think too much are very beautiful. You can’t help but fall in love with them as you soak up their thoughts, their views, their fears. But it is hard work. Thinking is inevitable, of course. It is necessary for growth. But I watch it envelop a person. Hell, thought used to own me. You start asking why you’re here, and why there’s hurt, and why do our parents die, and why do we go to school, and why do we get married and procreate, why are our lives balanced around this infrastructure that dictates what society should do, and you know what? Why do we bother to do anything at all because we’re just going to die in the end anyway. It’s all bullshit. And the reason it’s all bullshit is because it’s fucking true. But you know what else? It’s so easy to run yourself into walls and up mountains and in circles thinking like that.
This “thought” I speak of is a very specific kind of thought. Of course we all think constantly all day everyday, even while we sleep. This post is not to claim that I do not think. But that I have simply taken a vacation from the beauty that is existentialism and the various questions surrounding the human race.
I’ve been happy. A simple, mindless kind of happy. Not a childish rainbows and unicorns kind of happy, but I don’t tire my mind out on constant pondering anymore. I used to. I used to lie awake for hours asking questions, questions, so many questions. And going over every little detail of human experience and interaction. And then you left, and my mind went quiet, and I stopped thinking, and I got happy. But what is this “happiness” I attained? Is it real?Is it worth anything? Am I anything with these silenced thoughts? They aren’t gone, oh no. But they are quiet and they stepped aside to let me live. Not to say I haven’t thought deeply, I have. But it hasn’t been constant. I’ve been busying myself with the concrete; what is right in front of me.
But then you came back. And your soul was even more wonderful. And we sat on a rock and you said the moon was beautiful and I thought about how I was cold and you said you knew the earth and I thought about how I was hungry and you said you learned to read the stars and I thought about that party next weekend and you said you found yourself and I thought about how I had absolutely fucking nothing to say to you. I grasped for thought and struggled to find the words inside my head but they were gone and I was silent. I was asleep. And you were back and I was asleep. And you’re still back and I have still been asleep.
And then today, I woke up. I don’t know why. But I read every thought that anyone i felt was worth listening to has shared since I went to sleep and it woke me up. I enjoy not thinking. It is simple, easy, ongoing. I don’t second guess myself the way everyone else seems to. I don’t suffocate in questions. Some would argue that this is no way to live. They may be right. But then, I still attest that I have been more self confident, more optimistic, more willing to live my life than I was before. More than many friends who are bogged down by these thoughts. Perhaps in not trying so hard to find myself, I stumbled across who I am without meaning to.
Not thinking too hard is simple, easy, ongoing, happy. But it isn’t human. I want to come back now. And I am human.
It’s a physical pain, like there’s a hole through the center of my chest. It’s a burden to breathe; the breaths come in short gasps, as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. The knots in my stomach tighten with every intake of air, and the blood in my veins rages like fire, beating against my eardrums. The cultivation of thought is absent. I am aware only of the rioting of memories and the turning of my stomach. I feel sick. It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe, and sleep does not come. I can feel it inside, the only thing left to feel after all has been internally numbed. And I can hear it. I can hear the world crying, and, overburdened by her tears and the absence of his touch, I hear my heart break.
But, like I said, none of this even begins to describe it. Not even close.
Actually I’m just trying to be poetic.
I want to know the world and the beauties she has to offer.
I want to kiss the ground with my feet, taking in every bit of this earth.
I want to look past that inherent evil in humanity, and find that little piece of perfection hidden in our hearts.
I want to see through clean eyes.
I want to truly live.