I’ve been having a difficult time lately living in this world of realities. Sure, I’ve gotten used to the engagements and weddings, graduations and baby showers, all of which now make regular appearances on my news feed. But the funerals and hospital visits, the real markers of time, of the frailty of life, they seem to affect me more rather than less with each occurrence.
It seems there is barely a moment to catch my breath between the news of various tragedies.
And so, because I can afford to, I provided myself with the luxury of spending many hours in bed this week, with a book, with my journal, with my laptop watching Harry Potter.
During those weeks of backpacking solo in Southeast Asia, my comfort zone expanded until I couldn’t see the edges. But now, my comfort zone is no more than the size of my bed. I exert most of my mental energy attempting to control the uncontrollable, drawing lines that seem to vanish just as quickly as I conjure them.
There are loads of articles about being in your 20s: what to do, what not to do. Most of them consist of lists feigning wisdom to the lost souls clumsily groping through their quarter-life crises. “Live,” the words cry. There are no mentions of tragedies or deaths. As if we emit a golden, invincible shield protecting us and all those around us.
I spent all that time in bed seeking comfort and finding none. While I tried to escape the realities of life, time continued onward and the world outside remained, unyielding. So I finally got up and carried on.