At some point in the past I'd decided to move myself instead of being moved. I started writing and working harder on my head than on anything else, really trying hard to scoop the insides out and see what it all looked like in the harsher lights of time and effort. I determined that I needed to chase down my ego and sort out why all my stories have I and not We or Us or You. Like there was a formula hidden in the twine.
I'd also started tuning my physical presence to make up for what I felt I lacked in emotional capability. Some people run marathons, some go to therapists, I lifted weights. Back before my lumbar spine took me out of the game. Back when I did that sort of thing, the beauty of it was the quiet.
You're in a still moment, three hundred pounds is trying to kill you, and you do really have to focus on that one thing or you'll really be hurt badly and maybe wishing you were dead. In that few seconds, all the chemicals snap into place and you just fucking push the world off of you and breathe. Nothing else can matter. Nothing else can matter. Nothing else can matter.
The way the world works, you run out of things to push before you run out of reasons to. You're left panting, weakened, but maybe a little more satisfied than before you started. Maybe the animal brain down there deep and lonely has finally been allowed to be, and quiets down, and the volume drops. And you're OK for a bit.
And maybe not everyone has this or is like this or even cares, but in some very small tiny fraction of a way it matters to complete something truly difficult, matters more than any other thing because the foundation of your day becomes a thing of completed challenge, a moment where you rose to the effort required and overcame the burden. And maybe there's no other way to do that in middle America. Maybe the only struggle you'll overcome is internal, meaningless, and silly but it is yours and even if it is just a splinter of a thing, it makes the world turn.
That tiny struggle with millions of others, just consuming energy and producing life, just riding the surface of the planet and marking time.
|< Well. | White guilt... >|