I am terrified of change, and yet, terrified that nothing will ever change. I crave the stillness but am wary of it. Yearn for novelty but shy away from it. Long for the great big world but am afraid of it. I’m fixated on these lateral movements where I can’t seem to move forward but can’t bear to stay in place. Progress is a foreign concept to me. So is stagnation.
Is this progress? Is it doing the thing despite feeling no purpose behind it? Writing these words despite feeling so uninspired?
I’m expressing things, but merely sitting in them, not doing any work with my feelings, not being proactive about them. I’m writing about being sad and making myself sadder, thinking that if I channel it through the pen, I’m somehow expelling it from my being.
But it stays with me. And it feels too similar to being depressed at fifteen, thinking written words would fix it. And then again at twenty-three. Dying for my fictional stories to save me from this darkness and inner conflict.
And now, nearly twenty-seven, feeling like I’ve spent years moving and changing without actually having gone anywhere.
Is there anywhere to go? If so, how do I stop running in place?
(Inspired by Growing Sideways by Noah Kahan)