something to lose
on the profound loneliness of growing into your life
I’ve been staying up later than I usually do, lately. I crave the complete serenity of the night that envelops me like a warm blanket; the complete blackness of a sky once dotted with stars, now interrupted by the shining lights of the cityscape I so adore. On Sunday I watched Superbad at 2 am and stuck my head out of the window afterwards, feeling the crisp air, admiring the black sky and silent night. I’ve always loved the tender violence of a cold, cold winter - feeling the air bite at your cheeks, wind swiping at your hair like it wants to carry you away into that good night; welcoming the darkness that comes with the ennui of the liminality of January. I posted recently about how music is a pleasure I can’t ever deny when I go outside - headphones are always in my ears as I walk to work; walk home; walk to the store. A couple days ago, however, as I made my trek through city streets back home from a long day at work, I took my headphones out and welcomed the symphonic barrage of sound that greeted me. The sound of my feet hitting the pavement; the sound of quiet conversation; the sound of horns blaring and tires squealing - these were the sounds I heard, and I found a profound comfort in them. These are the moments that pass me by that make me wish I could immediately write about, but lately I’ve been feeling like the words I string together are artificial; untrue. I gaze at the wonder of a life that I have, and I feel so much, and yet I can’t write. And I keep thinking that I forgot something so very important, that there’s something I’m supposed to say, to remember. I can’t remember the last time I felt whole; the last time I felt cradled by the earth; the last time I looked at the sun and felt something other than rays burning my eyes. I read recently that us girls, us women, carry our children in us. They’ve been there since we’ve existed, just waiting for permission to greet the world if we ever wish to grant it. I’ve always wanted kids, but I’m deathly afraid that a future child of mine will grow up with this same hole inside them, with the comfort of the mantra someone will love me the way that I am turning into less of a certainty and more of a question the more they grow. Anyways.
Next January, I will be in a dorm room, and I will be living the life I’ve been dreaming of since I was a kid. The person I was a year ago will be a distant treasured memory, but I will know that there are places to go; people to find; songs to sing. For now, though, I have the wind, and I have a sky holding years and years of life to live, and I have words to spin the beauty of life into. What a childish thing :)