My life during the last year:
I am sitting very still, hunched up, in a box. I am not afraid,
only separate, surrounded by invisible walls through which I hear the ordinary
goings on in the house. I want to join in but I don’t want to. I am a part of
it, but I am not. I am stuck between the two. Perhaps those are the walls of my
box.
I have just noticed I am standing outside a door. All along
I thought I was looking for it, but now I realize I’ve been standing by the
door for quite some time. I have probably been avoiding it, trying to convince
myself to go through it. Perhaps I’ve just been afraid to knock.
I am standing on a rock, a broad, featureless rock (red,
like southern Utah) so large that it might as well be the ground. I am in the
middle and if I turn on the spot, I see the same horizon in every direction. I
am unsure which direction to go. When I think I’ve figured the direction out, I
look harder. But all I see is a closer view of a place I don’t want to be.
I have moved. I started walking and now I can see nothing. I
stepped into the dark and I am waiting for the light to turn on.
The air is filled with dust. The steps I took seemed to do
nothing besides kick up the sand at my feet. It rushes around me, obscuring my
sight and making it hard to breathe. I wonder if walking is doing any good. I
want to stop and go back so the dust will settle, but I know that won’t work.
I am pushing buttons, trying to find one that works. But nothing
happens.
I am waiting. At least, I think I am. Sometimes I’m not sure.
Sometimes I wonder if someone is waiting for me.
The fog is not gone, but it is no longer dark. It has grown
a little light. Not bright or sparkly, but like a gentle glow. The mist is
starting to feel fresh and clean and crisp instead of oppressive. I’ve been
granted a small reprieve. And I am grateful.
I am still here. And that is enough.
