I had written down somewhere, four years ago, and I do not know if this is true: that every being on this planet has approximately two billion heart beats to spend in a lifetime. Someone also told me once that people believe, and I do not know who these people are, that we have an allotted amount and you spend them as you wish. But, that being excited or thrilled or turned on in a way that makes your heart race, is the trade you make for dying sooner.
If this is true, if any of it is true, then we must think and weigh how and which and when and with whom we spend our heartbeats. It is a gift I can see in the people close to me who have lost people they love, a reverence for being alive and for time that I try to touch vicariously through knowing them. The impossible and intangible truth that we will all die sooner than we might like hangs like an abstraction somewhere constantly out of my line of vision.
Lately, and inevitably I am worried about the things in which we carry but do not care for. It seems the older I have gotten the more worn patterns have become and as much as I would like to break into a different space, I feel I am sending smoke signals to a part of myself that will never listen. We are what we make our life out of, and yet she tells me, we make our life out of what we are.
My efforts in writing have never felt less futile than they do this week, and it is because for writers like myself who need some hand holding or someone on the other side of the table telling me what I am doing wrong, this is an apt place to do it. Surrounding yourself with others who suffer from the same sort of mania feels good, and is good for morale, though I am wondering how I might reenter the world after this period of time.
I had a teacher a long time ago who told me I would have too spend the rest of my life caring for my writer self, that she was small but she was truthful. And I don’t think I have ever truly understood that until now.