Just. keep. going.
I remember when and where it happened, and each time. A little of me got stuck in that painful moment, while my body went on without. I am locked stiff in each excruciating instance, unable to breath, cry out, or process.
I learned how to pull myself entirely inside myself and move through life on autopilot.
I’m locked inside my head, white knuckled and bleeding fingers clenched around the throttle, my broken and weary body braced against it. I pant red mist against a flickering screen, the cracks, they fracture the searing white letters.
Just. Keep. Going.
They blink away, the afterimage reapplied into my burning retinas.
Just. Keep. Going.
-blink-
Just. Keep. Going.
-blink-
Just. Keep. Going.
-blink-
and so I do.
I close my eyes and lean my sweaty forehead against my sticky painful knuckles, the bones grate and grind against my brows. Muted red flashes cut through my lids, and I see the words again flash in my mind. The veins in my eyelids weave in and out of the letters, an ivy of the iris, I think with a thick chuckle.
Just. Keep. Going.
-blink-
“Hey man how’s going today?” and rough hand claps my shoulder, knocking me out of my mind and into my desk seat.
I blink and slip into My Role like a well oiled glove. “I’m good man, living the dream. You know what they say, the dream is a Tuesday in here.” I twirl a finger in the air, gesturing at the sea of cubicles we stood in. I drop my finger and proffer my knuckles.
The speaker gives them a knock with their own and flashes a grin to match my own. “Let’s get that bread!”
“Gotta get the bread, because the bread isn’t gonna get you!” I fire off a few scathingly unironic finger guns and turn back to my computer screens.
I look at the time. 7 more hours. I close my eyes and sigh.
Just.
Keep.
Going.
and so, I do.
I think I try to keep a consistent pattern or ritual woven into my life as a form of control. I think I ought to update this every day at 2 PM, or create a short story every Saturday. Then, when I inevitably fail, I hold it up to the mob in my mind. “YOU SEE. HE FAILS. HE FAILS EVERY TIME.” The mob roars for blood, and through self destructive cycles, they take it.
Now I realize it sounds like I struggle with self harm, which I suppose in a manner of sorts, I do, but not with the blade and the blood. I have a stomach of steel, but I really prefer it stays in the dark where it belongs, surrounded by all my nice warm blood and unpunctured skin. I understand the pain that drives one to seek the slashes, but I don’t do it. Hey, you. Yeah, you. You’re not alone, shoot me a message, it’s ok. I wonder if I can, in time, foster a positive community. Nah. I used to desperately want to be a celebrity, but that’s because I wanted to be universally liked. That’s not possible. Then, I wanted to be whatever would make me rich, and that’s because I struggle with financial insecurity, it’s a huge source of stress. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about, checking your bank account before and after every purchase, when you woke up, when you went to sleep. Any time anyone mentions money, the first thought you have is “I don’t have any.” I don’t know when or if I’ll ever lose that, and I chased the cheddar hoping I’d get it.
Now, I don’t care about having money. I don’t care about universal acclaim. I care about being authentic and empathetic. I care about being a better person than I was yesterday. I care about being a better person than I know I’ve been. In my favorite movie, Scott Pilgrim Vs The World, said Scott is facing off against the Main Villain who says
“You want to fight me for her?”
— Gideon
“No. I want to fight you for me.”
— Scott
Then a flaming purple sword explodes out of Scotts chest and he has a duel against Gideon and his digital cyber saber.
I’ve been working hard on getting to the point I get my own chest sword.
I make large strides, realize great self truths, and each time, I glance down with my eyebrows raised.
“Nothing?” I think.
My chest trembles slightly, but that’s just my heart beating.
“Beating to get the sword out?” I get hopeful.
No. Maybe it’s just palpitations.
I’ll get that sword someday, and it won’t be some large event. I’ll snap out of a daze, look back at all the piles of change in my wake, and then smile at the sword in my hands. I’ve been doing it all along. I’ve been doing it for me for years without realizing it.
That’s how it goes.
