Recover

Of late, it seems I’ve had many opportunities to learn from failure, perhaps more than my share. Self-inflicted disappointment has a way of wearing on the flexible parts of your soul, the way running on concrete irritates your joints. Yet I march on, one foot in front of the other on the road, feeling all at once that I should accelerate, tap the brakes, or that maybe I should have taken that off ramp a few clicks ago.

There’s no rhyme or reason to it; marinating in an emotional state, trapped somewhere between a life you live, and the life you learn with after that. Separating Chronos and Kairos isn’t as easy to do as it is to simply articulate. I know how to swim, sure, but maybe I didn’t account for the tide. Didn’t realize just how deep the rabbit hole went, didn’t consider how much love I feel for that which is most important.

Extrapolating meaning from the lyrics of a song, or the allegory of a tree trimmed back to her branches, or a car parked badly in the lot of the gym. These things only need to make sense to me and no one else, resonating in pulsing colors that arrest my inner synesthete to draw connections and meaning between despair and delight. Shoulda zigged, shoulda zagged. Shoulda worn better shoes. Shoulda gotten that extra hour of sleep. Should have sequestered my heart. Should have worn it on my sleeve. Why did I say that? Why hide the obvious, the inevitable?

Why am I still here, indentured and indebted, handcuffed to a radiator in a basement when the keys are in my pocket?

I don’t know. The path is clear enough, but like Bugs Bunny warned, “Watch out for that first step, it’s a loo loo!”

And maybe that’s my answer, on my way to trying to fully GET IT and align with the few who do: I’m beaten and worn down. I’m atop the mountain, looking down at the verdant valley below where I’ll lay my head and build on a solid foundation… knowing I have too much to carry right now to make it to that spot. I know where I need to get to, but it’s too far to travel in my current state. I’m not strong enough to take it on, to take the trip. I won’t make it.

Yet.

In the meantime, I’ll train. I’ll plot and plan. I’ll quietly build my empire in the shadows, build a better toy, strengthen what is injured. Organize and downsize. Streamline. I’ll galvanize my resolve, work on mind control and salesmanship and empathy and ruthlessness, callous my heart and hands for the work ahead. For the reward and the hope of salvation from myself, for the embrace of fulfillment, a promise not to ruin my life, just those parts of my life that already have…. and then move forward nurturing the living green things, the pliable parts of gray matter and warm red blood that support the vitality of my future self.

But God! The agony of healing is almost too much to bear. Slowly, then. Small bites. Short trips. Light meals. Soft pillows and hard realities. Fleeting glances, random mail. Cash only. Camouflage and happenstance. Patience. They’re just numbers, just letters, just places and faces, eyes that stare into mine, illuminated more when I close my eyes and dream as lucidly as my training and temperament allow.

I’ll recover. And be me again. And be. And be with you.