Out of It

I feel a yawning disconnect between myself and the working world. My tribe members are going for a weekend out of town, somewhere in a conservancy where they will be running for a good cause. For two nights, there will be bonfires, nyam chom, drinks and laughter. I want no part of this.

I have been feeling some kind of way. It is a niggling frustration, an infinite itch that I cannot reach, or rather, that I am not the one who can scratch. The fingers that can relieve me are twiddling other things, more important things.

I was scheduled to be out of town on an assignment that was cancelled at the last minute due to some miscommunication. I ended up giving up my spot for the other trip. It, however, was not much of a sacrifice. If I had tried hard enough I would have gotten back in. But, I did not try hard enough to get back in nor did I want to. I will be more alone today than I have been in seeming aeons. This fills me with a weird joy that I feel guilty luxuriating in.

Driven to a wall I cannot seem to claw up or out of, I instead claw at myself, tearing myself apart piecemeal painfully. But, the universe has for a second opened up and allowed me to step into myself. This blank internal space born of an emptied external one brings relief and the giant hand squeezing me from inside slowly letting go, allowing me to empty my lungs of cynical air and fill them with crisp clean distance.

Enough of me is left for now and will regrow in the ephemeral moments before new time rolls in. New flesh to prune. How much longer can I do this?


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