To exist should be so easy, to be should be the natural state but there is a disconnect between who we think we are and who we think we should be. To be, to be, to be. To be for who or what or in what terms? I seemed to have lost the ability to be in the most basic ways. To reach and create but to be distant at an alarming rate from me. I have forgotten how to be. Or maybe I have never known, have always been slightly off kilter, a contortion of the body.
The anxiety of existence keeps me from catching up with me. It keeps its claws rooted tightly into my stomach, closing my throat, causing phantom pains to rise from the base of my spine. My body reacts more than I would like it to, my body more honest than my mind could ever be. About this anxiety, to be to be to be? More of a question than an action, stuttering to a stop, to be. I can’t seem to wrap my head around to be. To be is now five paces ahead of me. I could never run quite fast enough to catch up to be. Always distant, always forward. Always future. Always not me. To be.
These words catch. To be. And perhaps its because the comfortable aspects of my skin have faded. To be. To be. To be. Let me be. I’m growing into me still, to be. Years pass and maybe this anxiety will fade with time, has faded with time, to be. I catch up to be. Four paces ahead. To be.
I’m blurred some days; so I try to figure out where my edges are and how much space I take up in the world in that moment. Some days its as if my true self is a smudge across paper, never really comfortable in the ways that the edges of who I am sit against the folds of reality. Some days, I think I could be better but decide I should dwell on who I think I am. My past mistakes seem to well up like tears, like water overflowing in a basin that I thought might have been big enough. Some days I’m blurred out negatively, a figure within a bad Polaroid picture that had been taken at the wrong time, shaken in the wrong ways.
I don’t think that the real issue is that I am suffering, but that I cannot (or will not) recall the times in which I have felt something deeper than this ache that sits at the pit of my chest, lower than my heart could reach on those some days. I was never able to see silver linings, but I never really tried either. Some days it seems like moments of comfort and joy seem stretched out across the universe, thinned by moments of anxiety and pain that I cannot place. Some days I think about the people I love and wonder of all the things they could hate me for but don’t.
Its not that I like to avoid the gentle gazes of the people that I love, and the light of their eyes when they smile. Its just that on those some days I forget about all the love and feeling that exists between I and others. I could be overwhelmed, like the basin that’s too small, with the love that seems potent around me. I could overflow with the love that reaches for me even when I’m feeling empty on those some days.
I know that one day I can feel at peace with my boundaries, with my smudges that ripple across the universe’s page. That there is a one day, and that those some days won’t claim me. I know that there is a one day because t I feel it most days. I feel it in the tenderness in which the love of my life looks at me. I feel it in the way that my mom squeezes her eyes shut and leans forward when she wants to laugh but knows that she shouldn’t at my crudeness. I feel it when my sister cries, but then still smiles at my jokes. I feel it most days.