On existential misalignment and the lingering echo of survival.

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Lighter, Anyway

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Do you remember when life felt fun?

When laughter came easy—

several times a day,

without effort?

.

When joy moved through the body

like breath?

.

When time didn’t drag

its heavy boots through thick mud?

.

I do.

.

I remember waking electric

with curiosity for each day.

.

I remember the people

who pulled laughter from the deepest depths of my belly with ease.

.

Gatherings of the like-minded which healed like medicine.

.

The nearly extinct species known as fun.

.

I remember feeling l i g h t . . .

Lighter, anyway.

.

Now I ache for proximity—

to minds that meet mine mid-thought,

and to conversations that expand

instead of collapse.

.

I ache for easy laughter.

.

For unguarded peace.

.

For a life

I can still remember the taste of.

.

I wonder sometimes

if perhaps I may have zigged where I should have zagged.

.

If one small turn—

one seemingly insignificant choice—

sent me wandering into a timeline

that fits like tenth-generation hand-me-downs,

stitched for someone else’s shoulders,

hemmed for another woman’s height.

.

I wonder if the fault is less cosmic

and more intimate—

if somewhere inside my own mind

I’ve built a narrow room

with iron bars I forged myself,

then misplaced the blueprint

for why I’d do such a thing.

.

And sometimes I wonder

if trauma tilted my lens—

shifted my depth perception

just enough

that I am always driving

a few inches outside the proper lane.

.

Just enough to feel the rumble strip

beneath the tires

every minute

of every day.

.

I wonder if what I call heaviness

is simply the long echo

of survival.

.

And I wonder if “lighter” didn’t disappear

so much as drift just out of reach

while I was busy learning

how not to drown.

••