It’s been more than a few weeks of being stuck in this limbo, this stupor of being unable to run, read, write, work, think. To think. Not the superficial way that will get me through the day. There’s tiredness too climbing up the flight of stairs, which was not apparent earlier. Stuffing myself with far too many calories. No more yoga, and hardly any guitar time. The restlessness has been building, only somewhat quenched when I’m able to get away to a ‘wild’ place. But there too, exhaustion catches up. Restlessness too, of wanting to keep moving.
There is at times an almost seemingly-foolish optimism, that I can wake up one morning and all of this would have just disappeared. I would be able to read, write and run. That I would be able to crack that complicated bit of data analyses that I have refused to partake in for so long now, and so on. I don’t know where this comes from, some hidden spring which I have only fleeting access to. But it is there for sure. It has been there for much of the time that Noah has been with me. Noah is getting old, and mellow and I joke that he’s become a sheep from the wolf that he was. His muzzle is turning frosty, there’s pain when he climbs up the stairs. But that said, he’s still quite a sight on his walks. The aging topdog whose quarterback I am, and a nearly-depressed human whose quarterback he is. But the thing about dogs – they age far too quickly, they are supremely forgiving, they are patient, and it is difficult to see them be all of that.
Another day of sleeping past the alarm and waking up feeling more tired. I can say Noah and coffee keep me from slipping further these days, along with some special friends who are there, in their own wonderful ways. I read some Peter Matthiessen after many years, and it felt refreshing to be back with a writer whose language you speak, and are inspired by – the places – vast stretches of rainforests, savannah, and writing that moves you and at the same time depresses you, reminding where I could be and where I am.
I know I feel disconnected from what I can feel the most when I live away from it. It sounds obvious to us, but to me it is like entering a bubble, a cocoon, that shields me from the questions that can drive me to do something about what I care. But can I not read about it, and I prolly already know enough to do something about it? It is hard to think when I do not inhabit the river, the streams, the forests, the small patches that survive. When I do not see the otters or their fishermen, when I do not see the river or its fishermen (the otters). When I cannot walk along the stream, how will I know where the sand banks are or what the flood has brought? When I’m far-removed – physically and mentally, curiosity hibernates as well, waiting, hunkering down, drowning in all the noise both outside and inside. Reading makes me believe I can write too. Writing lets me think, and the tiredness lifts like a veil. I know I’ll get back to it, and for that day I shall wait – in a range of emotions that words cannot match. But I shall wait. One day at a time.