I have been avoiding my practice. I do a careful dance around it, things need to be dusted, mailed, vacuumed… I am spinning and gnawing, she’s there in the back of my mind, saying return to me…
Is this what they mean by a calling? The thing that always begs you to return to it, the persistent discomfort that won’t leave you until you heed to it, it calls and it calls and it calls, echoing for you. I can’t leave it, because it won’t leave me. I wait and I wait and suddenly I can’t take it anymore, the desire I want to exist out of returns.
I become a nihilist when the world hurts to be alive in, I feel like nothing maters, like the ground isn’t real. My sleep becomes black and dreamless… My days exist in a cyclical fog, I go back to sleep.
Something always calls me back to you, back to trying to love life, however deep and deserted I become, I follow you home.
I wait. I listen to the rainfall, read poetry— I look for myself in it, I forget so easily the feeling I am always looking for…
I dream of static on my fingertips, to feel so consumed by making that I am spun by it and spinning with it. I try to stay awake despite the hurt, awake in my grief, embodied despite my urge to grow smaller and smaller until I disappear into myself. The path of least resistance of letting the world tell me I am nothing, that nothing that matters to me matters.
But… I know, I know, I know… I will return.
