It’s November and it’s 2020

I am floating out at sea. Past the surf and before the horizon. Cupped within the old, smoothed fingers of fog. At this point, the only sense of direction comes from the infrequent bump of energy, moving from the edge of the world to the shore. A rise and a fall and then a torturing stillness. Excitement, these days, comes and goes with such short notice. Before my heartbeat can even rise, the wave has caught me and spit me back out to a flattened sea where I spend the following minutes, hours, days prying my memory for some feeling that I forgot to feel. 

The past few days have been like none I’ve experienced before. The passing of family, the repulsion of old friends, the chill of a 5pm sunset from a desk. Things that once were, aren’t. And I have no idea where to take my next step. Kind of like the simple robot I made in summer school back in the 3rd grade– the one pre-programmed to roll backwards or straight and turn right or left in quarter increments, I move from my desk to my couch and back again. Eyes scanning blue to red to excel. What a strange and sad animal.  

I know– or at least I’ve heard– that for a lot of people, things are not going well either. Like a collective Sunday night wide awake in bed, anxious for the scattered uncertainties placed at random within the things we know are coming, we wait and waste until our perceived reality becomes physical. I’ve tried a few times now, to find solace in knowing that these feelings are shared. But the more I dig into it, the more unsettling this idea becomes. Should there really be any relief in being in this together? I can’t help but notice how derailed our shared reality has become. Or, perhaps more realistically, how ridiculous the idea of a shared reality ever was. 

The coming days are as mysterious as the ones that have just passed and I am feeling as directionless as the sea. I’m keeping things short today, primarily because sentences are flowing like molasses, but also because I’m convinced that I just don’t have much to say. All I can do is wait. Wait. Wait for something. The dark, promising sliver of a set on the horizon. The textured, shattered glass of incoming onshore wind. Something. Something to send me back to the beach or scrambling out to sea.