I almost neglected you guys again. I’ve been so busy lately, it’s hard to find the time to post. I’m working part-time at Target, blogging once a week for a website based in Brooklyn, and I’m interning three days a week in Tribeca. I can’t even begin to explain how tiring it is. Anyways, I don’t have work until 4:45, so I’ll write something quick for you guys.
I look in the mirror and I hate the way I look. Worn out. How’d that happen? There’s no use dwelling over it; I just have to keep going forward. Towards what, though? Where am I going? Am I happy? Why do I have so many questions, and no answers? Probably because I don’t have time to think about answers. Maybe I’m just asking questions that don’t have answers (or won’t have answers until I reach the later stages of life, where wisdom supposedly starts to make its presence known).
There are traces of my old self still visible. My eyes are sunken in, and lines are forming on the corners from the lack of sleep, but there’s still a hint of youth left. My light brown eyes outlined in black (maybe blue?) bring life to the pale, windburned–from being so close to the Hudson in the winter–face. Lines on my brow are also etched into my skin forever; that’s what years of hard work and stress will do.
My eyes shift their focus from my face to my hands. They’re covered in scars, each one telling their own story. Weightlifting, overly-excited dogs, chopping down trees for those New Years bonfires upstate. I remember all those pine branches, jutting out in every direction, waiting for you to jab yourself, tearing up your clothing–and these hands. There are even some scars from my first pocket knife. It wasn’t a good one, so it would close up on your fingers if you tried to cut something at an awkward angle. The blood flowing from my hand into the sink is still very present in my mind. A smile slowly emerges.
Stretch marks–on my arms, sides, chest, and back–are tattooed forever on me. They’ve mostly faded, but under bright light, I can still see them (and I’m still self-conscious about them, too). I was never fat. I exercised like a madman in high school and college. I deadlifted four hundred and five pounds once. There were only a few in my gym that ever put up that much weight. Two-forty-five on the bench and one-fifty push pressed over my head as well. They’re all etched into my skin. They look ugly, yes, but the tattoo metaphor does help me feel a little better.
I don’t even want to look at my bare feet. I know what they look like. I’ve always hated them. They’re covered in calloused skin from the miles upon miles of running. They’ve received so much punishment, but they’re also humble. I’ve never heard them complain. Without them, I wouldn’t be able to move forward. I wouldn’t be who I am. But again, what am I?
Nothing special, I believe. I just do what I (and most people) have to do, which is whatever it takes to be happy, depending on what your definition of happy is. For me, it’s being able to wake up the next morning. There have been times where I wondered whether or not I’d have that opportunity, so I know it’s not something to take advantage of. Even if life isn’t going the way I intended, its still going, and I’m just thankful to be in the passenger seat.