Clandestine Confessions

“So what have you been up to?”
This would be the first of three times he would ask me in 30 minutes.
Reminiscent of a date I once had when the boy continuously, over the course of the hour we were at a fair, asked if I wanted to ride the ferris wheel (even though my answer never changed…).
Unfortunately, time did not permit for us to do so as we had dinner reservations before a play.
And 15 years later I still wonder frequently why he was incredibly incessant.
What was going through his mind?
I’d like this present situation to not have the same fate.
I would love to know what he was trying to allude to with the repetitious questioning.
Why so intently invested in my life?
And why the pause and look away when I asked about his? Fidgeting with the cards on the table.
It was the only time we broke eye contact and the only time I have ever seen him break character.
I notice everything…and I have yet to determine if I love or hate that for me.
–
“Well…I quit my other job.”
“Whoa, congrats! Happy for you. What finally brought that on?”
His response says all you need to know about my frustration with that source of employment.
I gave him the abridged version of the 6 year saga. Although spared him from the particularly depressing details of the past few months that finally put me over the edge.
I tolerated as much as I could for as long as I could.
There was nothing left of me to give to this job…and honestly, nor was I willing to sacrifice anymore if I could have.
“So, what now?”
“Working here which is just the best. Also picked up a part time job the same day I quit the other.” (He let out a little “of course you did” laugh). “Reading more. And writing. Lots of writing.”
“So basically, more J time,” he said with a smirk
“Perfect way to put it.”
–
Which means…
I am out of valid excuses for not pursuing my one days.
And they have been becoming increasingly louder.
I have a member at the studio who recently gave me five books of short stories his mom wrote over the course of her lifetime – “For inspiration,” he said.
And then another member who asks me every day if I am writing. And if I ever utter a “no”, it is met with a kind but stern “well we must change that!”
And then there are all your comments on these pieces I release…I read them, I hear them, I feel them.
And then there are the many binders of writings from 2003-2015 I dug out of the sole bin yet to be unpacked since I moved almost one year ago.
“What in the world is in here?” the man exasperatedly asked when carrying it up the stairs to my apartment. He had to take a breather halfway there.
He was riding by on his bike when he spotted me at my car and stopped to see if I needed help.
I pride myself in my independence for I know the combats I had to endure to claim it.
Heck, I had just driven alone across the country, after all…
But I gladly accepted his offer.
“My life,” I told him. My already present (at this point permanent) smile got larger.
I had a dream a couple of months ago where a tsunami was coming towards my childhood home. I grabbed three things that were in my sister’s bedroom to preserve: my beloved stuffed animal rabbit, all my writings, and…well we will keep that third item a secret for now.
All I will say for now is that it is not yet a tangible item.
–
My writing exists because of me, but I exist because of my writings.
Although mostly written in pain, they hold purpose.
And while generally composed in confusion, they speak answers.
They are a voice – not just mine but that of those not yet able to give words to what they feel.
And they are a map to freedom and truth.
I may have found my way out, but I am acutely and painfully aware there are many people on this earth running out of time.
–
And so here I now sit echoing back his question to me…
“So, what now?”