Building 11 “Night Walk”

“When it comes to see me, it is not as a presence, but as a feeling. Even when it is in the same room as me, I know that it is not there, not in a way that is tangible, and not in a way that can be stopped. It is an emotion that sits upon my skin and wrestles and claws at my guts.

And it is a feeling of the pounding, exhausting thundering of my heart and the heaviness of my eyes that causes me to know that I am no longer alone

It does not like to be watched, and so it wishes me to close my eyes. Sometimes this takes longer than others. At first I would stare at it in defiance, keeping my vision locked on it, even when my eyes started to burn and my teeth gnashed together. But by the time we reached the end of the formalities, I would be shuddering with exertion, and it would be standing there, but not standing there.

It had all the time in the world.

And it didn't have to worry about the limitations of the flesh.

And so, inevitably, I would fail.

Now, when it comes to see me, I do not fight it. I know what it is and I know what it will take if I do not obey it.

That is the thing about things like these, these things that start with a chalk circle on the ground and a few muttered words. This always starts, so I am told, with a desire to have something that you do not have.

I have forgotten what it was I had asked for. All I know is what I ask for now, how I beg it to please just leave me alone.

We want to find a shortcut, a way to avoid the exertion of real work and the possible disappointment of failure. And when and if we fail, it will not be us that failed, but the thing that we called upon to exert our wills.

There are no shortcuts. Let no one ever tell you otherwise. Not when it comes to this.

The thing is, they are all mostly bullshit really. Any seeming success with this ritual or that is merely an illusion of change, the illusion of success. You do not have control, not any more than you started with, and ultimately you will likely end up with even less control than you started, because when we reach out and seek out those things that we suspect can give us what we want, we are giving up any authority we once had over the situation.

And in so doing, we leave ourselves vulnerable.

And when that happens, something gets in, no matter how well we draw the lines on the ground or how well we utter those rhythmic chants and no matter how bloody or valued a particular sacrifice would be.

I feel it in the room now, waiting me to finish writing this. It is there as an emotion, and my mind struggles to keep it at bay long enough to complete the task. See, it really does want me to talk to you, to reach out across the void and share. But it isn't going to make it easy on me.

Not for a moment.

So I write even though it is hard, and I hope that this reaches you.

I am so tired right now, and I can feel it like a weight upon my shoulders and eyes.

After I finish sending this, I am going to close my eyes.

I don't have a choice.

It is a feeling, not a real thing.

When I close my eyes, it comes inside.

Because I gave it permission, and it won't settle for just a taste-

Of the lump of flesh upon the ground, offered up to it-

In the hope it will let me go.”

I have been so tired lately, but I have been trying to keep up with my walks. Tonight I walked barefoot, though I carried some sandals so no one would question it. I know it is something I haven't done in a long time, and I am aware that the city is the last place that you would think of walking around without shoes.

But I needed to feel the ground, because I have felt so tired lately, and if I don't I am sure that I will continue to feel less and less alive. It is a risk reward thing, and though I am still tired when I am writing this, and I still have to pay attention to how I am feeling, and my feet hurt and my knees are acting up...

But it is better this way than the other.

The shapeless way I have been feeling lately, a life without edges or injuries feels so damn empty, and though I am not going out seeking punishment, I am seeking out the feel of the ground and the grass, the flopping of my feet against the asphalt.

It wasn't a long walk, but it was enough to make my blood flow and make me feel present.

There were strange things going on, like a massage parlor that was open late, the lights turned on and the door held open, but with no one clearly inside. I saw a man leave his house, cross the street with something in his hands, and head over to the neighbor across the street with a blue light in their window.

They knocked a few times, then turned around and went home.

I crossed the street to avoid him, then crossed it again to avoid a couple coming down the other way. Part of me feels bad avoiding the pleasantries of a “how are you doing,” the gruff awkwardness that may or may not matter. But we live in strange times, where even before the pandemic, conversation with a stranger needed to be avoided.

But I am home now, and I am writing, and I am still so tired.

My feet are dirty and my eyes are heavy. But I am a bit more aware of my body now and my surroundings, and I feel a little less dead then I felt before. And maybe, if just for tonight, that is enough to make all this nonsense feel like it is worth something, if only for a little while.

If I relent for even a moment, this feeling will grab hold of anything it can get its hands on.