The Only Constant Is The Moon

Somewhere along the way I stopped writing. Or maybe I just stopped posting what I wrote. I stopped wanting to share my happiness and my fears. They seem so trivial when compared to everything else going on in the world. I found myself caught up over the words when I tried to write publicly.

I find myself drawn to solitude more and more, and this year full of grief and anger has only driven me farther inside myself. Interacting in an entirely digital environment has been draining to say the least. My ears ache from constant voices coming through my headphones. My depression flares up every time I have to stare at myself on a video call. My anxiety is through the roof from having to avoid the unmasked people as I walk down the street and ride on the train to work. My heart hurts as I sit with the hopelessness of it all unable to hug my friends or see my family. I jokingly brush off how I haven’t even left the county since January, but really, it’s getting to me.

I’m a city girl through and through but I need the quiet stillness of nature to recharge. I find myself missing rocks and trees I haven’t seen in over a decade but still remember with such vividness. How do they call out to me from a thousand miles away?

I get emails from my hosting providing reminding me that my domain registration is set to auto renew next month. I pause. I have not shared in close to a year. Am I holding on to a version of myself I no longer am nor strive to be? Is this digital clutter I’m holding on to unaware that it’s long past time to let go?

My neighbors gather in a circle of folding chairs to drink and smoke cigars in the small shared condo yard below me. High above them on my back porch the smell lingers like I hope illness does not. I stare at a half full moon as the train rumbles off somewhere in the distance. It angers me, and yet I sit myself outside to write instead of moving indoors where I can feign indifference.

I’m fine, but the uncertainty of it all weighs heavy. The goals I had six months ago are pointless. Every time I think my footing is solid beneath me, something changes and I have to pick myself up again. I don’t have the answers, and I’m old enough to know that neither does anyone else.