Maybe I finally, truly have a screw loose. Maybe this is actually the way everyone wants to feel all of the time, but most people never even taste it; or can’t find it or give up trying; or only know how to get it through means that are frowned upon.
I have a friend, she will know immediately that I am speaking of her, who I used to describe as a very literal sensualist. That is, the miracle of every sense is a pleasure to her. The pleasure of every sensation is a miracle, every time. I used to watch this with a distant, scientific curiosity. Now I wonder how she survives. Because to be in the world this way is to love enormously, break your heart, and die over and over and over again.
I have been trying to understand this rage of feelings that welled up and took over late last year. It’s a complex landscape: the freest, utterest joy; that swoopy fear you get from looking down when you soar at great heights; frustration at reality, which even in all its beauty, holds you a little from moving forward faster, like running in waist-deep water; throes of gratitude that these feelings even exist and have come into your life; a knowing that such passion is a mantle; that prescient sadness (which is the true loss of innocence) from knowing that every moment will conclude; the rocket-fuel thrusters of feeling brightly, confidently potential.
I love this feeling. Yet it aches like old stab wounds; and sears like catching the sun in your eyes when new leaves dance aside on spring breezes. Not a complaint. More…a tribute, and a thank you, to those who have led me here. Perhaps I will grow accustomed to this space, which feels simultaneously, so constantly ready to shout with joy and so awfully, permanently, tentative. And that would be its own rich, exuberant loss.