I'm not entirely sure how to rest within the messiness of life. I don't think any of us are. We are fundamentally human, not fundamentally imperfect. Dropping the idea of perfection might be the first step to learning how to rest. It is definitely a necessary step. (So what are the steps I take in order to drop the idea of perfection? There are so many steps. My only hope is that I don't trip up the steps. Or down. I'm not sure which direction these steps are going. I guess I'm the one going, not the steps. The steps are just there, being steps. I could learn a lot from steps.)
I'm not entirely sure what I am doing with my life. I don't think any of us Millennials. Why is it that my computer does not recognize the word "Millennials"? Aren't all of us born between 1980-2000 so g_ddamn important and special and unique that we should at least be recognized if not praised?! And why are we all still living at home with college degrees gathering dust in an envelope on the floor in our room? Ugh, whatevs. Hand me my phone so I can find an emoji for how I'm feeling.
I'm not entirely sure who I am attracted to. Some days I desire a partner who will wear matching Eddie Bauer polos and khakis with me while we relax on an Alaskan river cruise during our summer break. We are both teachers, did I mention that? Maybe professors, but probably "just" elementary school teachers. We live humbly, we attend some kind of local church mostly for the social aspects, and on occasion we eat at Sizzler. Then the next day I transform into a nudist anarchist mutant who lives in some dingy apartment in Paris with an androgynous Tilda Swinton lookalike. We smoke on roofs and cry in stairwells. We buy bread and cheese, but watch it rot while we paint the sheets with old brushes.
I'm not entirely sure where I will find the time to write the books that are trapped inside of me. This is a funny -- perhaps even hysterical, definitely absurd -- problem. The problem isn't even with finding the time, but with my wild idea that there is even a time to find. Anytime I try to catch time in my hand in order to observe and manipulate it, it winks at me and dissolves into dust. In fact, it was never in my hand to begin with. So the cage door is open and the words are free to escape, right? Come out come out wherever you are.
I'm not entirely sure when I will stumble upon a hollowed out bible in a motel room buzzing with florescent lights, but I hope it's soon.
I'm not entirely sure why there is something rather than nothing. I'm not entirely sure why I crave hamburgers. I'm not entirely sure why free will exists and often I doubt that it does. I'm not entirely sure why we can't feel the planet spinning when we are walking around a park full of trees imported from various countries. It's a tree museum. I'm not entirely sure why we are in each other's lives, but here we are, fundamentally human and all.