March 4, 2010 § Leave a comment
This is something I wrote about two years ago, during a time of transition, between loves, between futures. I was in the middle of a mad meditation on interactions between fate, choice, partnership, adventure, ambition, curiosity, and movement. This diary entry is pretty all over the place, but read it how I would: without pause, without hesitation, without a moment to spare for oxygen.
Back then, I wanted to share this with someone — so I’m going to now that I have a place to do so. I’ve kept a private journal for more than a decade now, for as long as I’ve had thoughts of my own, and it’s always been an amazing gift for me to be able to look back on the written me, on how I’ve changed since then — or how I haven’t — and to see a snapshot of my mind in a moment far, far gone.
“I just want to move. Move so fast that you could never really see me or have me because, as quickly as I move near you, I’m already somewhere else. You can only hope to meet me at another point in my road, that somehow we’d cross paths, and you’d like to – over and over again. That’s what it is to be with me or around me or close to me. To know me. To call me a friend. It’s a constant crossing of paths, a meeting point of personal trajectories, gathering and parting, at the will of both choice and serendipity.
And I want you to want to be part of my trajectory. I want to be your choice every day. I want you to want to be every notch in my belt – the first one when I’m at my fattest, and the last one when I push so hard that I forget to eat and I skip that drink, and I grow thin because when I’m so full of energy like this, I don’t need much more than more. Because this need to run isn’t basic, and it’s only inside those who want more.
I want you to want to run as fast as I do, and I want you to move along with me, cross me, circle me, and catch me when you can. I just want to move. I want to feel the earth passing below me, and to feel my soles meet new surfaces and textures of ground – dirt and marble and wood and concrete – new feelings introduced with every step, skip, leap, and fall.
I need to move. I sit in a grey cubicle, and I hum the days through. My fingers stretch, and I turn to pictures of my loved ones around me – stills of life in its greatest moments captured in station, and they stir me. I’m so anxious for life. I follow the hands of the clock as they inch away to a happier minute. I wait for that minute to happen, and I’ve been waiting for too long. I’m tired of waiting. Waiting for life. As my job buries my interests, and I spend everything I earn, and my hair reaches the floor, I lie in wait for life to happen to me.
The waiting happens unconsciously, but I guess that’s why I had the whole thing wrong. I’m not living at all sometimes. If I’m not moving – whether forward or backward – then what can I ever find? How will we ever cross? If I’m not moving, I miss everything along the route to somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. So, let’s travel.
I want to move because, every time I do, I know something I didn’t before. Every time I reach out, I feel more. Every time I step forward, I’m a little closer to the answers I’ve been searching for. Every inch is a millisecond less to the moment our paths cross again, and maybe you’ll hold me when we meet. And we’ll be closer when we meet. And we’ll fall harder when we meet, every time we meet. And, even when we part, it just means that we’re that much closer to the next time we’ll be together.
The motions. They’re all beautiful.
I’m going to take things with me. Every smell, touch, sound. Every word uttered or shouted. Every memory and every lesson. All the faces, and the hands who held me. The hands I held. The songs and the humanity and the breaking of hearts. I’m going to take all the loves and the aching. I’m going to take it all with me, and it all will build upon the other as I shift and sway and run and saunter and strut and shake and walk and crawl because this all gets me a little closer.”