I am here — this I know — and yet I am not. My feet hit the ground, while my brain travels further away; to worries of what will be — to what is not yet. I am okay. I am not okay. I no longer know what that word means. I’m trying to describe a state distant from myself. Could we avoid that dialogue entirely?
I am a writer. I am not writing. Not for me, but for a broader scientific voice. I’m not ready — for the morning to come again — for the night that lingers. I want to see outside myself. I am too far buried in this ever-present tired.
I am not fast enough, I fear. I sit with an unfinished document — ideas explored at the surface level. I am not me. I am coping and doing and telling myself the things I need to do. I am lingering over spaces — with lengthy pauses between actions.
I am not sure how long I will feel this way — a low battery — a flickering light — a buzzing hum. I feel the words coming more slowly, processing at a pace that feels heavy. I am unsure. I sit with scribbled words, trying to name a state I’d rather see leave. But it is absence. I find myself again in these fleeting moments of connection.
When the words return and I find release.
I am lost in this space of wandering through, wanting to simultaneously reject and claim the names for the milemarkers. I am here. I am not here. Uncomfortably far away from myself, longing to return to a place I recognize. I map my journey so far; longing for patterns and sensemaking. Where I made a wrong turn — settling into metaphors of storms and roads.
These intentionally drawn diagrams try to show me where I am. In the all-too-long middle. In what I fear will never be. I am not sure of myself anymore. I’ve been derailed a series of times — only to return here — too fast and too slow — utterly overwhelmed, then exhausted.
I don’t know how to be here, but I am nonetheless. I am unsure of present — future — will be. I don’t trust my words to adequately describe this space. I fear I am not enough for this. I want to describe what I cannot name — to say it aloud would be to enter a place of not knowing.
I see myself going through the motions, wishing for more explicit directions. A model to follow. A certainty I wish I believed. If / then — a recipe for what next. A paint by numbers for a life I’m still exploring.
I am working through; I am managing — still trying to understand these concepts. Sometimes dialogue feels like Mad Libs. I fill in what is expected. Unsure of how to further describe this weary silence.