Presumably Someone

If failure, like everything, is a spectrum, that might make me feel better. For my sake and yours, we’ll say it is. 

I think of my body as it’s reflected–of my fondness for quantum mechanics and the book that told me kindly that we create the world through perception. If I could, I would perceive a world so complete that I could walk across its length without being afraid. But the reality is, I am very afraid.

I’ve been thinking about why. 

To combat, or I guess lean into, what is painful about being in my own head, I’ve been taking a lot of walks. 

I do not mind all the walking, but I do not know what it means to be existing and writing inside of failure. 

Aren’t I someone? I ask–presumably someone–and wait for a response. Aren’t I? I find answers walking by. Faces concealed by hair but smiling–assuredly smiling. 

They must be smiling.

Looking for something in me. The filling–the inside. They pick away until, I fear, they’ll find it. It will fall, ugly and dripping. Right there on the sidewalk. 

I will have to stop, then. Concealing with my hands and body some kind of imperfection. Shoving it away. 

If being someone, like everything, is a spectrum, I think that’d make me feel better. But it isn’t. It’s not–I cannot be half a person. I cannot be, kind of a person. 

Even though there are a things about me (the alleged person) that I feel are wrong, I cannot take away the fact that I am already someone. 

That we all are. It’s just true, you know. 

Why does this feel so important to say? Did everyone know this but me?

I am not ashamed of being now inside the spectrum of failure. I think nearly everything important exists there–in the possibility of total devastation. I know that fear is a byproduct of giving a fuck, which is incredibly inconvenient and entirely unavoidable. 

Annoying and uncomfortable as this might be, It is important to recognize that right now we are, already, worthy of seeing ourselves as entire people.

That fear is not a character flaw to be squashed, but indication that we cannot be kind-of-people.

That we have a whole person under our control–that we have to take care of them. This is intense, you know. It’s a lot of work to carry on living, but we do it. Sometimes even happily.

I’ll keep walking, and let you know if anything else seems important enough to share. 

Talk soon. 

I love you,

A.