the practice of deciphering my emotions often feels like a constantly moving target. it is a practice, for sure, because it often feels like work — tedious and challenging, something that would be easier if just avoided.
there’s that feeling behind my eyes, a sense of exhaustion and under-stimulation, boredom maybe. is it a product of being weed hungover? or that lingering sense of unfulfillment, a subtle awareness that i should be doing more with my life.
i get off the phone with a best friend who’s in nyc at the moment, coming down from a busy work trip. does this conversation make me feel better or worse? it’s nice to hear the voice of a beloved, to get a snapshot into his life, but his sense of busy-ness makes my life feel especially empty in comparison, my lack of career accomplishments pointing me in the direction of “loser.”
the weather is pleasant enough, but an act that typically brings me joy or at least peace of mind – sitting outside, does nothing to qualm my lingering anxiety and unease.
i cannot tell what’s tangled inside me, what’s leaving me feeling so dissatisfied. is this simply a passing experience meant to be felt and not held onto too firmly? maybe i don’t need to make much of it. or maybe it’s an indication of something bigger, the tip of something that i’ve been avoiding and distracting from that’s calling for my attention.
solitude, one of my favorite states, feels disquieting. i imagine part of it is the awareness that i won’t be able to smoke for the next week because of a procedure, and this simple restriction can often make me feel like i’ve lost a comfort blanket, like i have one less tool in my toolbox.
i hoped writing would make me feel better, or at least bring me clarity. because it typically does. but even this leaves me wanting, almost further from my target than when i began.
so i guess that leaves me here to simply hold it. to allow it to wash over me, to take residence in me for as long as it wishes. and to welcome its departure when it’s time.
i can’t tell if it’s sadness, a mourning for something intangible, like what my life could’ve been. or some foggy perception that i don’t do enough to invest in myself.
and yet as unknown as this sensation is, it’s also familiar, like something i’ve felt before time and again. hard to name, like a guest who’s perpetually veiled in shadow. dissatisfaction is the closest i can get, but even this doesn’t feel like it quite gets at it, doesn’t create enough space for the grief paired with it, for the pain i still cannot touch directly.
it amazes me how much sadness seems to linger behind all these various emotions, how much of a partner its been throughout my life. it’s always there, right on the edges, just close enough to graze it with my fingers.
well, i’m going to go distract myself a bit, give myself some breathing room from this unknown sensation in my being.
in the meantime, good luck out there ❤
becki's a practicing human 