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Lacunae

I’m in the lacunae now. The little gap, the bit where the text is missing, where the song stops for an extended period, and everything is hushed, waiting waiting waiting for the return of movement, waiting to see how it plays next. I tell myself that I can enjoy the anticipation, with every kinetic molecule suspended in its cellular matrix, ready to crash into motion with heat and noise. But, oh, I hate it.

These kinds of mornings come around every now and again, wordlessly, but never fully as a surprise. Usually after I’ve spent all night lying under the top sheet with restless limbs, staring wide eyed at the ceiling whispering “what the fuck am I doing?” to the boring white plaster, willing it and pleading with it to give me an answer in between the shudders of wind against the basement window.

Like last night. Then I wake up with a long blink, realizing that somehow there was a moment when I fell asleep, thank god, and between that closing of my eyes and opening them now to squint, frowning and furrowed at the diluted light of clouds, I dreamed. Lots of dreams, full of things that made me not rested, but instead more agitated without having any recollection of why.

And the forlorn haze of condensation suspended across atmospheric miles stares glumly back at me and shrugs, yeah, who knows, right?

The small, silly rituals become so very important within these collections of hours-before-noon. I hold them close to me in my search for something grounded. Coffee with milk in a favorite mug. A perfect tune playing while putting on clothes and mascara and making faces in the mirror. Standing at the kitchen counter watching the minutes tick down before I have to leave for class, alternating between trying to read as many articles as I can mash into my half-conscious brain (Afghanistan, Syria, Mali, the garbage of US politics, the weird and wondrous) and staring out the window toward the South Sound, imagining that instead of going to class I could be leaving for the airport, to go do something.. important. Ah.

The other silly things I do with my time, the ones that make me whole when I’m not pretending to be a professional, important person, are so valuable too. Climbing has become my prozac, my weekly rehab, where I slough off my anxiety for two hours with a rotating circus of wonderful, crazy friends. These afternoons remind me to be present. To keep focusing on what I can be accomplishing here, now, instead of always looking at maps and worrying about timelines and dissecting the What Ifs in a million different ways. Sure, the reprieve is short lived. But the momentary clarity is recharging enough to keep going.

 

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