Running. Away, towards, whatever. I’m running right now.
Imagine: standing still, while the you inside pulls away like a wad of chewing gum strung up to the underside of a shoe. See? One piece is still on the pavement, the other is bungeeing upwards away, momentarily free, until the shoe strikes the pavement and leaves a little bit of you behind with each step. Perpetual displacement with no refuge.
I hate my job. I hate it because there aren’t enough hours in the day for me to do it. I hate it because it takes me further away from the things I love. I need it because I can’t afford not to. I try to find that place inside me that keeps me safe from this burrowing thing. I try to find it at home, but there is no comfort there either. Only endless grind. Endless doing. Endless failures, too.
There is a restlessness in my heart.
With nowhere safe to lay my head and heart, I run. Run because I can’t find that crawl space, that dark underground place where the world can’t find me. When I was little, it was my closet – that boxy, black, magical space that opened onto more magical spaces. I spent hours in there, crouched under the hems of my trousers, coats and dresses.
Maybe I closed my eyes
Maybe the walls melted into new worlds
Maybe I fell asleep