I love my cat for a number of reasons. Her quirks never seem to disappoint squeaking a smirk from my lips, even on the dullest of days. One of her idiosyncrasies includes sitting in the soaked shower, just under the showerhead promptly after I finish my nightly cleanse. The leftover droplets cascade below, scattering delicately around her. Each time one lands, she gazes quizzically at the place the droplet expanded into a uniformed puddle surrounding her toes. Her gaze does not lose its complexity, no matter how many beads of water fall below.
Drip Drip Drip
Life is one of the most impressive marathon runners. She sets her pace and sticks to it. Seconds tick methodically, routinely, and do not skip a beat. She carries this pace without tiring, without pausing. Carries on into the abyss, unconcerned with PRs or possible stumbles along the way.
I envy her ability to keep the pace.
I’ve noticed I’ve been watching life run her marathon, feeling as if I’m cemented to the sideline. Perplexed by the notion she continues on at this pace while I feel mesmerized by her fluidity. Perhaps this is how my cat feels as the droplets scatter about.
Maybe I’m bored with the burdens I’m carrying. As life has run her race, I feel as if I’ve been running alongside, carrying around the same yellow backpack and that shit gets heavy. This bright yellow backpack was so shiny and appealing in the beginning. The neon reflectors kept me safe as I ran in the dark. Its snug straps supported my body and propelled me forward. As the race carried on, as did time, this shiny yellow backpack began to weather from the seasons. It began to rip from the wear and tear. At first, the tears were manageable and small. A piece of duct tape could quickly do the trick. But now, oh now there’s not enough duct tape in the world to piece it back together. The yellow sheen has faded, and the reflectors have fallen off. The marathon continues on, life moves forward at her methodical pace, yet I feel burdened. Tired of the worries I’ve been toting for what seems like something past its expiration date.
Rationally, I’ve learned about the consequence of time. To live means to age, and to age means to cease one day to exist. I know this, yet I’m finding my heart grappling with the idea of forever. Desperate to do a deal with the Devil if that meant renewing the bright yellow backpack to its formal glory days.
Drip Drip Drip
How does one invest in their own narrative while bearing witness to the conclusion of others they cherish so deeply? Yes yes, I am very familiar with the phrase “it’s OK to not be OK”. It is a favorite hashtag of mine on social media. A thought of reassurance for others yet does little to console a soul who is mourning for what once was.
I miss that yellow backpack.
What did that little yellow thing represent though?