I wrap the elastics around my wrists absentmindedly and forget about them until suddenly, hours later, they are cutting into my skin, a noose for my hands. Often, I don’t know I’m carrying something until it leaves a mark.
I stop wanting. I make myself stop wanting and instead open my heart to the world. World, I say. Bring me what you will. I’m ready. I’ve got my boots laced and my gloves on. I’ll go out swinging.
I laugh more. I stop worrying what a touch might mean or if I’m asking questions implicitly, with my fingertips and lips. I don’t care.
I say, World, keep me warm. You’re bigger and stronger but I’m wily like a fox and even fantastic foxes need to rest. I could slip out and run off or we could learn to coexist. Scratch my back, World. I’ll scratch yours. My nails aren’t as long as you think they are.
I drink up the people around me with great gulps. Cool, clear, levelheaded. Drinking for nourishment not for thirst.
I didn’t even realize I was dehydrated until my throat ached and my tongue dried up. Just like I didn’t know I’d stopped missing you until you started missing me.
It’s funny the places our feet take us when we stop counting the steps.
These roads don’t move, you’re the one that moves.
Ben Gibbard and Jay Farrar – These Roads Don’t Move