I am learning to just get up and go
And to let the quick burn in my chest for the desire to put myself in my life catch on; to let it form the poem and the volatile truths and the phone calls I have put off. It is cancer season and I am feeling defensive of myself and the life I have created but I’m not scared right now, I am inlove which can cause a similar fierceness. I am not tired but sort of bored of myself - of the self that is not-acting on the conviction that consistency lays outside of my capabilities and so I am listening to the story and feeling it’s flaws grate at the tender skin of this life I am building and there is a spiritual sensory overload that has me launching myself into a fight - sometimes I sidestep and launch into an avoidance instead and that really is the cycle. I don’t want to be harsh in this movement, in this going that feels sporadic or disempassioned and that wants to find a better word than disempassioned because apparently that doesn’t exist but I like it so I’m keeping it. And as I say it there is that heat again - I like it so I am keeping it. But for everything I keep there is a lot I am throwing away, or simply leaving behind in my going. It’s not that I necessarily feel energized, or engulfed by this desire that just propels me into certainty and action. It’s more the looming responsibility of what-ifs that weigh on me and my need to be strong enough to carry them. What if I do not just go do it? What if this becomes engrained in me? What if I could have been and never tried? My what ifs are failures of courage more than failures of attempt / the only failure in attempt to be not at all so I am learning to just fucking go. To get outside of myself, to play a character in my life, to jump the ship of perfection that never leaves the dock, a design never able to trust itself as it is not really designed for the sea of progress so much as the idea or dream or notion of progress. And today it is simply just getting up off the couch, and moving to the bed. And pulling out the book, and knowing I do not want to read and I do not want to lay here and I do not want to do anything and I’m totally uncomfortable in everything so what at the very least do I want to accomplish if I cannot muster a connection with what I want to do and then the words run through me and I know I can’t stop them so I chase them onto the page or the screen or wherever I can get closest to them and I just fucking go; or actually I just let go. I just let go. And I think that I have mastered this letting go after the last year or so I’ve had but where I thought there were a hundred hands there are a thousand and I am dropping through a tunnel in the labyrinth and what I thought was grasping me is actually me grasping it and there are countless familiar fingers just letting me slip through and I wonder sometimes why I’m the only one holding on. So yes I guess I am also scared in a way. I am scared and in love and scared of being in love because being in love means eventually being out of it - that particular circle of it anyway and I wish I could see it like the sun setting itself for the day but it actually feels more like the edge of a memory closing itself on the moment and saying this is now the end of what this is and I am certainly scared of that. It is the oyster and I will eventually be the pearl but god will it be lonely in here until then.
But still I must just get up and go. And keep going and going and going and going… I know this rhythm well - I do it in my dreams, falling in and out of sleep to continue the subconscious story. I do it with a book. I do it with a walk in the woods or swimming back and forth from the middle of the lake to the shore. I am so good at going when I’m escaping or skimming along the surface but I am learning to go deeper. To stay. To be rooted. To be honest when it scares me not just empowers me. To go to my journal and my questions and my self reflections instead of the ears of another. I am something just waiting to catch hold right now.