Pause

Every now and then, I think that after I graduate I should hibernate in my parents’ guest bedroom for a month, or a summer, before poking back out into the world. Sleep. Sleep more. See the doctors I was supposed to see years ago. Get the tests I need, tests I schedule every time I visit home but then cancel a day before. Undergo the supposedly necessary surgeries. Rest before I sprint again.

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Three years ago I thought I’d never get a degree, sustain a job, survive on my own. At one point, my ability to walk to the mailbox alone was questionable. My dad pulled me up the street to lift the red flag, afraid I’d lose all muscle mass otherwise.

So no one would judge me for taking a month to sleep, right? A block off before finding a form of income.

A job.

I have more jobs than I can handle now, but after Commencement, they’ll disappear like faery dust.

(Dream situation would involve a move to the northwest,
back to the ocean I’m always surprised to find I miss.
Dream situation would let me continue to write.
Though, really, any situation allows writing, if I let it.)

But I probably won’t do that–hibernate in my parents’ guest bedroom for the summer. Won’t stop, at least not completely. Not if I can help it.

If I did “stop” it would only be to write like I did last summer and figure out why my body continues to malfunction–be responsible and see the specialists I need to see (which I was supposed to do last July but instead took three courses and worked two jobs and rewrote a book).

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I’ve been running on long days for months. What is sleep? Days good and bad. Some painfully sad, others manically brilliant. I like this life. Workshop blocks: bliss. My reality. Though I sometimes question what I’m doing. I question my excess of shifts. The two jobs. Question my commitment to ballet. Why do I keep going? Those nine hours a week could surely be better served. I’m terrible on my feet, terrible in the mirror, terrible with hearing the beat. But ballet makes me happy, gets me away from a desk and treating my body. But more than anything I question my words. My writing. My stories. Can I really get away with playing with sentences and call it art?

But then a moment hits, so sweet, and I think, No, Yes.
I like this life. I like this life a lot.

I guess what I’m thinking is that I don’t know anything beyond right now and that’s fine by me.

For now.