I do wish that I could cry, sometimes. To let that sullen wave erode the granite foundations which gird the softer me. It would be simpler, maybe, to lay the armor down and stand naked in the sun for whichever arrow next takes flight to find its destined home inside of me.
I do wish that I believed. It would be kinder, even if I never knew the meaning of that which created all things. Would I feel less, or maybe more of the better? Could I release myself to it and know that, come hell or high water, I had found a home?
We look inside ourselves to find these answers. Were we built to feel this way? Were we built to languish within the citadel of ourselves? Is this some arcane defect of a species gone awry, the natural consequence of our unique ability to engage with this existence, or the holy path for all sentient things?
I am tired. There is no other way to say it. I tell people I am tired and they think I avoid the larger question. “How are you?”, they query. I tell them, “I am tired”. They laugh, or pause, or scowl. I am avoiding their question, somehow. But that is how I am because, like most others, the weight of all the worlds rests squarely on my broad shoulders. They do feel broad, most days. What mountains cannot be climbed? What tenderness cannot be shared? What things can I, the unconquerable descendant of an unconquerable race which has brought the whole earth to heel beneath its communal will, not do?
Anything, really. Most things. There are so few things I can do and even those demand a monstrous effort. It feels like this, some days. Other days, the merest thought sends reaction scurrying through the webs of our shared existence. I can summon metal from the depths of a distant continent or light from the sun or thought from anywhere on this earth with the snap of my fingers. We all can, to a greater or lesser extent. We are the gods now. Or so we are told.
I do not feel like that tonight, as I sit on the porch of a home built almost a century ago. How many people like me, or altogether unlike me, have sat on this porch and thought their expansive thoughts in the brevities between wake and sleep? A night feels like a year, a week like a lifetime, and now like only a meaningless moment.
A hundred billion lives came before me. Those are only the lives of my own species. So many more likely come after that myself and all those proud descendants sum to a meager drop. All this effort of so many years, just 30 for myself and a long 30 all the same, are less than a breath in the wind. This house has seen more than I will likely live. This house will be older than the oldest human. I wonder if, in my time, we will begin to truly conquer the natural limits of our bodies. Will ennui consume us? The night has, and the day with it, and all the moments in between.
There is no grander message to this writing. In time, perhaps with sleep and water, this horrid collection of moments will pass and the sun will shine on me and tomorrow will be today. I will feel good. I will be good. You will, too, or so I hope. The tide will wane and the foundation will stand for another day until it, too, erodes into the sea. I want to end this with a missive about the earnest importance of now, of We, of This Time. I cannot. The night waxes and wanes. So do we. I am tired. Tomorrow is still tomorrow, for tonight.