I don't know how to tell you what I want to say. I've begun, and then again, multitudes of sentences, combating paranoia, grief, mistrust because of deep betrayal, and my ongoing vulnerability until the incomplete drafts flood my catalogue of recent posts.
Still, in my silence, you come back, waiting for what's next. As do I. But I've still not resolved how to proceed. My closest confidants tell me I must not give in to muteness, to write even if it is unshared. And there is so much to write. Much felt that needs emoting.
Today I am sore from wandering into the mountains. I am sore from the hours I trod the path, whispering the problems through my teeth. Sore from the welling up and spilling over that predictably occurs in order to mend the frayed edges of the self. I am contradicted. Twisted by love and loss, ambiguous resolutions within the self, and the finality of certain physical states. If this were all a test—and I don't subscribe to that view—the answer key is an unraveling of narrative systems and illogical faith. Were this a test—and, try as I might, I see no other solution to the equation of that possibility—a passing grade means the teacher and the syllabus disappear. Loneliness. Demands for existential meaning in the face of ridiculously failed recipes for hope. If I wanted to turn around an re-enter the classroom—take the test again for a different score—I would find the door evaporated. There is nothing there remaining to hold on to.
My only option is to continue to tread forward, weep, rest when weary, love when the opportunity permits, and then plod onward again. How else does this go? Where?
The past two years are bookended by the path before it, and a path leading away; all hedged in on either side by indescribably breathtaking vistas, always when least expected.