Choosing Not to Fight

When I was a child, and the world got a little overwhelming, I would often crawl into my closet and sit there, trying to sort it all out, trying to ride out the storm. It was my safe space, my dark, warm womb where I could be alone with my demons, where outside pressures would not force my stale smile, my stumbling limbs reluctant to accept comfort. The other day, as I sat in my room with the world spinning, I remembered that feeling and thought, perhaps, the magic could work here, too. That if I could pull out my suitcases, my rubbish, I could crawl into that little corner where the heat runs through the walls, and somehow I would find myself again.

I didn't try. Perhaps I feared the social ramifications of having my roommate find me playing in my proverbial fortress.

My friends make their moves, get their jobs, change their lives. Always on to the next natural step, all trickling onwards. Meanwhile, I carry on, on my side of the ocean, struggling in the opposite direction, swimming up the Hudson without so much as a life jacket, and wouldn't it be easier just to be swept away? I look out over the river and see a giant cruise boat slowly making its way to the open sea. I'm not quite sure, but I think it's looking up at me and saying "in your face".

I know what I want. I know what I came here for. One does not dream an entire lifetime simply to have that dream vanish, leaving nothing to do but turn around and go home. Every dark question finds its answer in the one fantasy, and it is only Winter now that plays tricks on me and turns me into this spectre of a human.

If I could, I would take another warm body with me, slip quietly under the covers, and not emerge again until Spring. Then, my dear cruise ship, we would see who had the last laugh.