To what used to be always

How fitting.

The deplorable expectation met my gaze and kept it there as I sat thinking about what move to make next. Anything that could make this moment divert from its usual course would fill me with excitement, relief. Because the casualness of it all has started making me so discontent, so unconnected, so indifferent to the outcome that the numbness of it all is scaring me to the point of desertion.

To be somewhere else, to feel something else has become a dream I wake up from as the unfortunate morning realization of my surroundings comes to focus—the reality I have surrendered to.

To be content is less than being happy, it lies just above the buzz ones feels before the body goes into a complete numbness of senses and instincts as alcohol saturates the veins.

The typical “of course,” “saw that coming,” “shit, yup I deserve that,” stutters of the mind come to face the truth in the spotlight of a moment.

Run away from that, run from the hands reaching from the muddy ground trying to keep you there stuck in that moment. We learn to expect the pulling, the grabbing grasps from what was.  But we develop calf muscles and we jump, hell, as we leap onto higher ground.

When we reach that spot, we look down at the muddy footprint we leave as we walk forward. With each step that footprint fades to a point of clarity that is almost unrecognizable, one that we aren’t running from, but running with—you can tell by the length of the strides, they get shorter.