Edosewele's script

I was jealous of Mether, the man whose legs were almost crushed by a 2000 pound pipe yesterday. I was jealous not of his pain, but of his stillness. I craved the hospital bed he lay in because it was easier than doing life. Easier than participating. 

Life is not a race you can opt out of. There are no other options but running. You can only change how you reach the finish line. So I wished carelessly. I only want to write, but fear clouds my judgment. It makes me an imposter of the thing I love. If my legs were gone, I could sit and write for as long as I can. Yet it is a cruel thing to dream of. It robs my family and friends  of happiness and leaves long streaks of heartbreak I fear may never mend. So I am here , after quiet rounds of self pity and loathing, grieving my incapability to bear courage. 

I know and tell myself this, that self pity does nothing. It is a comforting mirage that lets us stand still until regret arrives. So I have decided to do something else. I have decided to mourn my twenties, as I write. 

In mourning my twenties, I savor what will not return. The person I will never be again. The togetherness and familiarity of my siblings. I look at my sister and carve her baby face into memory before she turns into a thirty year old woman. I pinch my brother’s bony skin before he gains weight, and I sing loudly with my brother before time robs us of it. I spend my money before they begin offering to pay for meals. I watch them knowing these moments will not come again. We will soon be different people, and I mourn it because it is already slipping away. 

My bathtub feels surreal, though some might disagree. I think there as I soak in soapy water, arms weaving, curating the person I am to be. I consider the structures that must guide me, the ones that must help my feet sink into solid ground so I am not lost. We change. Experiences alter us forever. I imagine becoming someone else and forgetting who I was, and a sharp fear flashes in my chest. It may be a better version of me or not. We are never the same as who we once were, so I tell myself change may be good, even while the fear lingers. 

I remember that Rain brings me joy. I find comfort in its sound and in the heaviness of the sky. It excites me in a quiet way. When it rains, the city slows. It feels as though nature commands everyone to pause, to breathe, to feel and  to cool. Rain is rejuvenation. Each time it falls, I take it in and long for the next. I wonder whether it will feel the same when time has passed, when we have all shifted slightly into new versions of ourselves. 

We never know what we should have done until later. So I choose to be present in the mourning. It helps me grow. There will be moments that remind us of who we were and how beautiful it felt to be that person. So we must hold ourselves. Press your  feet into the ground and  experience what you can. I wish you grace, as you continue this journey.