What really matters is something more than a feeling. It’s a knowing that weighs in my stomach like a thud on the floor. It’s knowing that my body is moving, my mind is thinking, my faculties are being put to some use. That I am going somewhere even if I don’t know where
that
is.
It’s when I escape the endless cycle of wanting, consuming, buying —

and run free in a field of resourcefulness, appreciating, giving, being.

It’s intangible when I can’t seem to find it, forever blowing past me on a gentle wind that won’t let up. But when I have it in my hand, the extra weight makes me lighter. Scales tip to balanced. Feet ground to let my mind and spirit fly.

But in that in-between zone, when I’m aimless, doubtful and waiting, it’s a game of small agonies. Incessant, tiny cuts that tell me I’m doing something wrong but not wrong enough to warrant extreme action. To be clear: these are agonies that have no right to be there, that don’t even warrant the word agony, let’s call them tiny despairs maybe.
There are things that can be done about these little cuts, tiny despairs, but there is no fire to act. No overwhelming push to be radically better, to sharpen, to hone.
Instead,

I hover

I absorb

I spin my wheels and keep my hands busy. These are the times I hope result to something. I hope prove fruitful. I hope are not simply wasted hours of undoing, un-being.
[I hope to justify my laziness.]
I hope they inform my journey in the end. What end you ask? Well, that’s the thing.

The end is always somewhere
right under my nose

and a thousand football fields away. It’s a place I suppose I will know when I get there. It’s a place I hope I never reach. I tell myself: what really matters is finding a point to my doing and not-doing, to my action and rest. A point I can feel okay with, or, rather,
[I tell myself]
an okayness with knowing that I may never reach a point at all.