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It’s raining this morning. Water falling from the sky – how far away is that? Tea sitting on my desk beside me. Leaves grown in Thailand – how far away is that?

We keep doing the same things. Shocking, maddening, damaging. All the colors of the rainbow. There’s no rainbow. Just rain.

People are afraid. Humans are frightening. Generations at war with ourselves and everything around us. How do we throw away fear? It’s kept us alive all these years. Well, some of us.

See, it seems we didn’t evolve enough. We stopped too soon, happily scraping our tools in the dirt. We’re all missing something. What is it? Can we know?

Pulling back, looking down at all of it from the rain clouds above, we’re just scrambling animals without a clue. The rain knows more than us.

He saw his mother put in the ground last year. She never knew the answer. He doesn’t know. Can’t seem to find it as his babies are being born into this world. Who is left to ask? We fragile things keep dying off before we can figure it out. Struggling to survive, still, even with our modern technologies. With our tea from the other side of the world. We’ve gotten really good at hunting and gathering. What else could we possibly need?

 

It’s always the same thoughts in different situations:

 
“He’s so close, yet so far away.”

“It’s going to happen.”

“It’s never going to happen.”

I hate feeling this way, this deep-down bubbly terrified feeling that seems to be a product of either evolution or of thinking too much. Maybe both.

I wish it were easy. I wish you could know me, without the awkward pauses or silliness, without the socially-agreed-upon acquaintance behavior.

I wish words worked better for me, wish I could tell you about how a few nights ago I sat in the dark grinning to myself, thinking about how wonderful and horrible it all is. I wish that would flow out smoothly from my mouth, make you understand that I’m a creature just like you, with dreams and plans and more than just an empty swivel chair figure taking up too much elbow space.

“It’s going to happen.”

“It’s never going to happen.”

But it’s always the same: always too much bravery or not enough at all the wrong times. Always too much contact or not enough; You’re either always there or never there and it doesn’t matter which because nothing ever happens anyway.

“It’s never going to happen.”

Always the same: a lot of laughing and smiling and refusing to cry over something so silly, over something so nothing.

“It’s never going to happen.”

And it ends the same, too: me, alone, grinning in the dark at how horrible and wonderful it all is.