Dilation
I’ve been meaning to write; I’ve had sweeping ideas about Beyoncé’s continued influence, the state of dating in America as it relates to politics, and Andrew Yang’s new book. My mind is always racing with ideas. And I’ve been meaning to write.
My mind is always racing and yet time is moving…differently. It’s only been two months since everything changed. It feels longer for me. It feels like the longest year ever. And so much has changed. Everything has changed. Each day, I burn through a new body and mind, an ember growing strong with consumption from the time I open my eyes to the time I rest and it fizzles out, no more left to take. A beautiful mess, a phoenix less graceful and more chaotic and concerning. Still, I have been meaning to write.
That’s been the most frustrating aspect of things right now; how silently grief has stalled and accelerated my life, creating the spin cycle I am currently in; for how long? Literally only God knows.
I turn to faith. To obsessing over china patterns I want. To tarot. To dirty martinis. To CNN.
No men. No time and no way the spirit can hold that much chaos. This is, in fact, my time, whether I want it to be or not.
And it’s a rich time. It’s a complicated time. It’s a time where uncertainty has gripped the nation and the globe. I am uncertain in many places and sure in equal measure. I am not quite lost but rather deep in and a ways off from my destination. Wilderness is not my captor but rather a stage and portal.
But I’ve been meaning to write.
The ideas are drafted just like so many things these days. A sticky note here. A Pinterest pin there. To-dos and checklists litter my tables, drives, and clouds, a strategizing ground for whatever object the cyclone spits out or lets settle. Some days, it is myself; never outside but within the walls, in the eye. Beauty and terror meet for those moments. Sucked in again.
Another sticky note. Time is different now.
I’ll write eventually.