Upon Waking
(It comes in softly, like morning light bleeding through a thin curtain, like night a pale lavender stain spreading into the sky, more perception than sight. And like illumination, or darkness, the world transforms around me but I feel heavy and unmovable. Maybe this is depression. I call it sadness because I want to cry and sometimes manage to. Sadness implies something contained within but this feels bigger, a vast wilderness. I find myself yearning for Ecuador.)
Memory: There is a bus on a winding mountain highway. I’m inside it, expected to get off because I rang the bell. Yesterday I must have bought a ticket, made this much of a plan. No one says a word—neither the bemused driver nor the sleepy passengers., No one asks where I am going, why I wanted to get off this far from town, no one obvious out there to greet me. Just me stepping off into the empty world with a few irrelevant belongings.
I want to sit down so I do. The bus heaves back out onto the black road, growing smaller like a leaf floating off down a river. Now it is just me and a dry wind. A huge sob wells up in me but at least there is no movie playing in my head. The sob seems completely unattached to anything and it floats off and now I am just sitting again. I couldn’t think if I wanted to and that is a relief.
I want to take my sandals off and let my feet touch the dust. I occupy a good amount of time picking lint out of the Velcro straps and then a few stray fears start buzzing around my head like gnats. Why did I get off the bus? What if the town is farther than I thought? What if it gets dark? What if someone is watching me?
I remember reading about Anne Frank’s father, how he and two of the Dutch helpers were the only ones to survive; how he didn’t know that yet when he returned to the city hoping to find at least his daughters. How do you go on into such ruin? Will I always live in this shattered world now? Will darkness and light keep up their incessant conversation around me as if I am not here?
Something is keeping me alive. I don’t have thoughts of death, only exhaustion. I feel like I have to keep moving every day in order to not succumb to this fatigue. I wonder what it would be like to have someone say, “I will take care of you. You can lie down as long as you want. You never have to get up again if you don’t want to.” That fantasy gives me a lot of comfort. I am probably just here to pretend that I can have that. No expectations. No responsibilities. No need to think or act. Just feel. Blessed land of pilgrimage, my heart trudging beside me like a burro, shouldering all the burden without complaint. Buying random bus tickets with my dwindling money, finding a bed, washing my underwear in sinks. Exquisite little happiness to find it dry in the morning.
(It comes in softly, like morning light bleeding through a thin curtain, like night a pale lavender stain spreading into the sky, more perception than sight. And like illumination, or darkness, the world transforms around me but I feel heavy and unmovable. Maybe this is depression. I call it sadness because I want to cry and sometimes manage to. Sadness implies something contained within but this feels bigger, a vast wilderness. I find myself yearning for Ecuador.)
Memory: There is a bus on a winding mountain highway. I’m inside it, expected to get off because I rang the bell. Yesterday I must have bought a ticket, made this much of a plan. No one says a word—neither the bemused driver nor the sleepy passengers., No one asks where I am going, why I wanted to get off this far from town, no one obvious out there to greet me. Just me stepping off into the empty world with a few irrelevant belongings.
I want to sit down so I do. The bus heaves back out onto the black road, growing smaller like a leaf floating off down a river. Now it is just me and a dry wind. A huge sob wells up in me but at least there is no movie playing in my head. The sob seems completely unattached to anything and it floats off and now I am just sitting again. I couldn’t think if I wanted to and that is a relief.
I want to take my sandals off and let my feet touch the dust. I occupy a good amount of time picking lint out of the Velcro straps and then a few stray fears start buzzing around my head like gnats. Why did I get off the bus? What if the town is farther than I thought? What if it gets dark? What if someone is watching me?
I remember reading about Anne Frank’s father, how he and two of the Dutch helpers were the only ones to survive; how he didn’t know that yet when he returned to the city hoping to find at least his daughters. How do you go on into such ruin? Will I always live in this shattered world now? Will darkness and light keep up their incessant conversation around me as if I am not here?
Something is keeping me alive. I don’t have thoughts of death, only exhaustion. I feel like I have to keep moving every day in order to not succumb to this fatigue. I wonder what it would be like to have someone say, “I will take care of you. You can lie down as long as you want. You never have to get up again if you don’t want to.” That fantasy gives me a lot of comfort. I am probably just here to pretend that I can have that. No expectations. No responsibilities. No need to think or act. Just feel. Blessed land of pilgrimage, my heart trudging beside me like a burro, shouldering all the burden without complaint. Buying random bus tickets with my dwindling money, finding a bed, washing my underwear in sinks. Exquisite little happiness to find it dry in the morning.