The Thread

We are never truly on our own. Yet, we are only ever alone.

I miss who I once was. When the unknown held more hope than discomfort. When anticipatory change felt exciting because there was only me to manage - one signature on the dotted line of risk. Now there are two dependents with social security numbers I do not have memorized; only mine is etched in memory. I even wonder how terrifying cognitive decline must be, when those nine digits evaporate. I’ve edged up to the line that holds those wonders now. No longer bombarded with shiny images of dreams and what seemed like the luxury of time to sort it all out, wrong turns and u-turns allowed.

The precipice of change in mid-life is experienced differently.

Its shape holds the same.

Endings and beginnings cycling at once.

Courage must’ve waxed and waned this way twenty years ago too, and I’ve chosen to focus on the triumph. The arc. The arc de triomphe.

Isn’t that how history is written, after all?

I require adventure. Spontaneity. Presence and connection with those in front of me. To align my efforts at work with what feeds my soul. Rising depleted from hours on the same chair, the days passing by, to emerge and create connection becomes effort. I see how it’s easier for one to retreat. This is the system. The illusory world of productivity and accomplishments, the ‘golden handcuffs’ they say. How easy it is to convince myself that it’s temporary or that one foot is in and one foot is out. I want to feel considered. Not just for my basic needs of eating and drinking, but for the emotional well-being of my heart and soul. I want both feet in.

Why do I struggle with this isolation? It’s universal to human experience or at least, modern human experience, yet I perceive it as unique to my melancholy. As if mine is more stark than the average person’s. Perhaps the average person fills theirs with food, alcohol, and sex. I am not sure.

All I know is that for all the strides I have made and all the patterns I have tried to unlearn, the thread of loneliness spools forth.

The city itself, a compatriot, or the loneliest place.