The Space Between

Time is fleeting, yet there seems to be so much of it in the space between questioning and knowing.

Sometimes I feel as if I am failing. I leave tasks undone, rooms unfurnished, the yard unkempt. The window box sits bare. I know these are trivial matters, but they leave me feeling exposed. I find myself concerned with my outward perception—not because I lack confidence, rather I feel misunderstood by those around me. Every action I partake in is overthought and intrinsically linked to the trauma which people assume I am entrenched in. I am being watched—this I know. It’s not a presumption, it’s something I have been told. There is a communal desire to protect me. I am a box marked “fragile”, filled with a mystery that leads people to coddle—to question each movement, wonder if my decisions are grounded.

I understand the concern but to say I appreciate it would be a lie. I am not defined by the events that have unfurled. I did not put myself in the eye of the storm. I do not feel encumbered by what has unfolded—I am not beholden to it.

Life has proven you can only be so smart. A well-devised plan will only carry you so far when the universe is not at your whim. Death has provided me with an unknown level of relaxation. I am untethered, yet here I am. I am strong despite floating in the breeze—nimble, able to change direction without the upset I used to experience. I have no plan.