Score |
239
STILL
<p>Nothing happens on the days I do not try. That is the first thing to understand. The weight only comes when I reach.</p><p>I sit down to ask for something. Before I have got the words out there is sand. Not fear the way it is usually described, not a racing thing. The opposite of racing. Something heavy at the legs. The sensation of trying to walk in a dream.</p><p>I have learned that the sand is not punishing me for failing. It arrives at the reaching. Which means the surest way to stop it is to stop asking for anything, and I have thought about that more than I would like to admit.</p><p>I ask anyway. It takes longer than it should.</p><p>Then the waiting, which I will not describe, because everyone knows what waiting is.</p><p>What comes back is kind. That is the part I did not expect. Nobody has been cruel to me. They wish me well, and I believe some of them mean it, and it does not help.</p><p>On those days there is a noise in me with no outside. I am screaming and my face is doing nothing at all. I am pleasant. I have got good at this, good enough that it worries me, because a thing like that gets practiced, and I have had the practice. Nobody has seen the cracks. I made sure of it. I am no longer certain that was a service to anyone.</p><p>And under all of it, the question I cannot put down. Whether I am still what I was. Whether what I gave was taken, or whether I have been standing in a room explaining myself to people who stopped needing me there.</p><p>Then the next morning I do it again.</p><p>Not because I am brave. Because holding still is also sinking, only slower, and there is no version of this where I am rescued for staying where I am.</p><p>There is light. I want to be careful how I say that. I am not certain of it and I will not pretend to be. But I can see something, and I have decided to walk toward it, which is not the same as knowing it is there.</p>
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