My friend Erin wrote this. She emailed it to me a couple weeks ago. The subject said, "just a diddy". Yeah. JUST a diddy. Pfffft. I asked if I could use it and it kind of caught her off guard. Well Miss Erin, this is straight up good and Chipper Things is going to be the vehicle to your international fame and glory. --
So familiar is this emotion, this circle, this undeviating rotation of thoughts. Once around the bend and once again into infinite burrowing, chiseling depths. Ruts. A rut, by definition, is a “sunken track or groove made by the passage of vehicles.” It is that or, “an annually recurring condition or period of sexual excitement and reproductive activity in male deer.” The former is what I am currently sorting through, though I am sure I have encountered the latter (metaphorically, of course.) A groove, a rhythm of dissonant displeasure. Purrrrr, and hummmm, and screech are my weary tires against the deepening red clay of my mind. Wail on you wiley siren. Sing me into my depravity.
A voice says, “will you trust me?” Will I? How do I? My response is littered with skepticism and fear. “Let go.” What? How? Of what? “Me. You. Your worries and your mind. Yourself. Let go.” Again I have to ask, how? Do you, voice, not see my feet and my wheels and the deep walls that surround me as I spin in this unceasing ring? “Trust me.” I let go. Fingers, unclench your tiring grip. I let go. Mind, stop. I let go. Black. Cosmos. Stars. Beginnings. New life.
There are no ruts without control, and there is no control when we lack gravity. Thank you, voice, that I defy gravity. The fall feels like floating before I spread my wings and fly.
*photo via Bleubird