The Existential Wall

-a dispatch from the grief process

baghead

I don’t know what to do next. Not in the next part of my life, or next week or even in the next five minutes.

All the options have an equal valence. None seems any more desirable or preferable to any other. None even seem distinguishable from each other. It’s not like an equanimity or balanced state but a nearly complete disengagement.

It’s like hitting an existential wall.

Maybe similar to the wall marathoners hit when they get a certain distance into the race and they hit that point where everything just sort of shuts down. This happens when you’re trekking in the mountains too. Depending on the route it can come as early as 2 or 3 kilometers in or at 12 or more kilometers. You just want to stop, sit down, not move at all. Doesn’t matter if it’s getting dark, or you’re hungry, or you’re only 500 meters from the spot for the night’s layover, or all of those.

It’s some kind of limit, this existential wall. A margin. An edge.

Some point beyond which envisioning is not possible.

Then what else is there to do but sit down and write a little ditty about it?

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