A Lot Of I, I, and I

I wonder what it's like, sometimes, to live a different life.

I am both young and so terribly old – racked with the immeasurable heaviness of knowing that a future isn't certain, love isn't guaranteed, and things will hurt so, so much more before the light cracks through the skyline.

I am no longer a child – my body aches and groans when I don't treat it well, when I drag it out for miles and miles across fields, and stones, and beaches, and trailing, endless, painful hills. It collapses with me when I stumble home, protesting as I rub ointment into my feet and fall into hours of dreamless sleep.

I often wonder what I'm meant to do with all the feeling that I have. I will promise to dedicate it all to one person – and to one person I shall – but I'm not naive enough to think about all the nights I'll spend awake in bed, thinking about what to do with all of the excess spilling out of my guts.

I have all the urges of a deeply selfish woman. The urge to travel until my legs give out, eat cake in private, sit alone in dark rooms with stories I love – explore every heart that my very own touches. I think of the path that is dedicated to me, and I wonder how long I can hold onto the me in my own life, taking her along as a half-ghost sister, relishing in living life for us.

I think of the day I'll find the solution to quell my racing brain. The magical pill that I'll swallow, or the shot that I'll take, or the body I will give in to. I can't imagine being calm – not needing to live in fight or flight, waiting for the time I knock back another drink just to feel some peace.

I consider the possibility of losing my spark – losing the energy that makes me likeable, the creativity that makes me interesting, and the character that makes me whole. Who am I without my wit? Who will I be without my imagination? How will I recognise myself without the drive that makes me me?

I am both angry at the world and at peace with it. I have carved the path out for myself with my own hands, pushing past the resistance at the cusp, and running full pelt into the sun. I thank God for my religion, and my voice, and my birthplace. I curse him for my stubbornness, my temper, and the anxiety that consumes me like a whale does krill.

I have so much time to live and yet none at all. Will everything feel intense forever? Will I ever be able to give myself to others without bleeding myself dry? Is there serenity past a border I can't see, an agonising hairbreadth past my fingertips, eager for me to make contact?

If I were to live a different life, I would ponder just how different things could be. Maybe it would feel like everything. Maybe it would feel like nothing at all.