A backlog of stories awaits me in the deep. I say this because my weekend travels have invoked a thoughtfulness that can only be discovered mid Monday by the excruciatingly subtle drone of routine. A silent killer of motivation and yet all at once the extractor of truths- no, this job is not what I seek to do forever. This truth is not a vague or overlooked one, but rather one that I successfully ignore because I don’t know what alternative would suit me better. My concept of aging is slowly but surely starting to align with real time, but the American dreamer in me strives to continue to believe that I have all the time in the world. I am young, after all.
I accept that another weekend has effortlessly come and gone. Coastlines were considered for their fresh air and stubborn refusal to be anything other than what they have always been. A book was savored, devoured, and put to rest. Sunburns and youth were strewn about with a restlessness that is coveted by the geriatric population for its sheer ability to be what it is; something mobile and free and impassioned.
When I imagine how my journey feels in an existential sense, a backdrop of blue skies, light breezes and a grin spreading from ear to ear comes to mind. I don’t know where this image is taken from or if I have ever even experienced it. There is a strong possibility that I saw it somewhere in a magazine, likely some years back when I was severely impressionable. If it were a magazine image, it was likely some vibrant young woman that I saw hanging out the back of a convertible on the cover of some beauty publication. She was probably sitting effortlessly on the back of a red mustang, top down, feet on the seats, arms in the air. This was an ideal image to a young girl on an impossibly hot day that was spent road-tripping through a sun-drenched northern California July. We were probably on the way to visit my grandparents in Grass Valley. My mom had probably stopped at a mini mart to get more cold water and some snacks. I probably stood idly in front of the magazine rack without concern for where we were going or what we were doing; I wasn’t there yet in the space time continuum of childhood. I was simply along for the ride, aware that it was summer and I was sweating. And that this particular image was just. so. good.
Fast forward to a young woman that is nearly 25 years old- less than a week from the absurdity of a quarter century- sitting in a desk job that she questions on the regular. Constantly considering all the things that she can and may even (actually) do with her life while simultaneously endeavoring to drink enough water, get enough exercise, and read enough books. As far as today, with large thoughts inexplicably in the forefront of all efforts to write articles that have nothing to do with feelings, with only a few days left of being 24, this young woman- me- relents to the day and the ones that will undoubtedly follow it.
Perhaps the simplest way to be- the path of least resistance on the way to “aliveness”- is to steal a few hours from my boss. Just. Stop. For. A. Second. Linger on how I feel and write it all down for the sake of reading it over and over again as the years pile up, or build, or slip; however it best suits you to imagine time. Time that is effortlessly moving forward with a gracefulness so brilliant that it catches us all no matter how we look at it.
