105 degrees Fahrenheit
Every day I feel I am teetering on the edge of fragility. I want to just let it go, let it out and cry, though no tears come out. Maybe listening to ballads. In the car. Belting sad ballads in the shower. Spotify on, walking with sunglasses on. Nothing.
I sense a breakdown coming. I’m just anticipating it. All this build up needs a release of some kind. Kind of like suddenly waking up in the still of night, when all is quiet, expecting the Big One that is long over due to shake us to the core. Though waiting for the arrival of something great never to the actual arrival — when we are jolted to the depths of the soul, scared and left with wounds to heal. Careful for what you ask for. We are not truly vulnerable when we are expecting.
I’m suddenly doing hot yoga. I never did hot yoga. I hated hot yoga. But in the humid heat, shirtless, and instantly perspiring, the forward folds plunge me down into the nebulous area of vertigo, losing consciousness, and letting go of everything — reality, gravity, my balance. I keep testing myself. What am I reaching for? A breakthrough..? Or maybe just a pure, raw emotional flood that I can hide through the puddle of sweat dripping down my chest, face and body..? Or maybe I’m just hoping to pass out, so I can have a bad experience and finally, an aversion to yoga. But it is unfair to burden my yoga practice with such expectation.
I really need to just move on. She’s not coming back. She doesn’t care. She’s in a different place. Memories can be supplanted and over time, shoveled over. What’s done is done. You have tried your best. You need to do you.