I’ve seen now why they do it.
The adventurers off to Switzerland to climb the Eiger, to India to start a life, to begin a company that will make millions, a charity that will serve the world, bring smiles to a million orphans’ faces…
Why they laugh and with endless positivity; scale heights and how I yearn to be with them, yearn to be a part of their great feats of derring do. To scale and come down again and beam and accept the rapture. It must be like a drug.
It must be like a charm that works its way into your belly. A curse that promises the writhing of a snake, the arms that will embrace and take you with them, the harm that comes when the good battle is fought.
But this wishing, this aching carries its own harm. I’ve sat after travelling wondering the next step, with an open life, free of constraints – what will you do?
And I did until I didn’t do anything. For two weeks I have been at a halt, barely able to move unless necessity required. And all the while a burning in the stomach was asking the point of action, experience of friendship, of harm, of life. It was as critical as that.
It was as critical as a bird telling you its chirp was a knife, an answer that writhed instead of solved. And that’s fine. It’s passing. It is not the permanent thing.
But I see now the lust for adventure, the yearn to better and climb and move and dynamically cut through until nothing left but my own handiwork – was a ruse – a petty and childish ruse – to escape from a feeling that none of this was worth it.
Not the coffee or the sun, not you and not these fingers as they type, chirrupping in synchrony with the birds outside my spring window.
How could a life remove itself from itself so repeatedly?
It doesn’t. The end is a dissolve that fills your chest until it breaks with a giant, exhilerating breath.