Elsewhere

Do I ever figure anything out?

Or is everything just a shot in the dark? An endless shooting of arrows. Endless shooting. Relentless gathering and refining, seeking the next target. The next revelation. The next fix. The next love. The next breath of fresh air. The next salvation. The next god. The next road. The next.

With all strength, faith and valor, I keep shooting the arrow. With optimism, pessimism, both. Hope. The exhilaration. The tender in-between. The waiting. The craving. The desire. The magnetism. The longing. The string that pulls and pulls, closer, as if seducing me to give more, to let myself.

And when I finally come in contact with it, I feel a rush of relief. A sense of being satiated and finally at ease. The first bite of a home-cooked meal. Home. Every bite, every sensation, the perfect scratch for the itch. And for every itch, I tell myself: This is it.

But what good is it? What is this heart that I have? What good is it? To get everything I want at once?

Why does holding back feel good? Why does push and pull create the perfect recipe for insatiable craving? Why does longing feel sweeter than arrival?

I freeze in my body. I have no answer.

Do I ever figure anything out? Do I desire what I desire? Or do I simply not know what I want and aimlessly shoot at the dark? What if every desire is homesickness? What do I crave? The other? Or the journey to being clasped into the other?

I’ve always wondered if desire belongs to me. Can I summon up the feeling of desiring without a mediator in between? Can I desire nothing but desire itself? Or is desire like the Holy Ghost, never knowing where it comes from or where it is going?

Is this a dance? Or am I simply playing with words? It might be a dance. If so, do I figure out the steps? Do I have to know?

I haven’t blinked, not even once. I watch, observe and studiously learn the mechanics of this dance. I’m desperate to let myself be carried by each beat. Is there a right way to dance?

Are there rules? Or have we collectively decided to create and keep some? To spoil the fun?

Eyes wide open, we tell each other that one person’s skin is lighter and another’s darker. That some bodies are disciplined into admiration while others are disciplined into shame. That some dancers get compensated more because they belong to a certain class. Or because they dance in taller towers. Or because more people want to dance with them. Or because their faces are extraordinary.

Meanwhile, others dance with soil beneath their fingernails and sweat gathering on their noses, barely visible to those dancing from above.

I’ve seen some who have made use of this dance and film themselves dancing. I’m privileged enough to watch them as pixels on my screen. I find myself amused by them. Their creativity in multiplying the purpose of this seemingly meaningless act of dancing.

Worse, some dissect the whole thing and try to create a cohesive piece of writing about it.

And here I am, doing exactly that.

I know the names of the steps. I know the history of dance. I know which dancers are admired and which are mocked. I know how some dance with elegance and others dance only to survive. I know how some become dance itself. Yes, I’m always up to speed. Yet when the music starts, I freeze.

Am I dancing or merely studying dance?

What really matters to me? I have no answer.

Sometimes I feel drawn to play these games, even though I don’t know why dance exists at all. I’m still baffled by the question: What is dance?

As you can see, I’ve drifted completely from my original topic. Or maybe I haven’t. Maybe they’re the same thing.

Before my ancestors were even born, humanity had already been dancing. Layer upon layer of meaning, rules and expectations had accumulated around it. And here I am, perplexed and paralyzed, wondering if I can learn a new way to dance, even though I’m not sure striving for the sake of participation is the most authentic response for me.

What if I danced with my eyes closed? What if I no longer want to be defined by the metrics layered on top of dance? What if I never figure anything out?

What if shooting arrows in the dark is hope? Hope that the next thing won’t make me richer, holier, prettier, wiser, stronger, more obedient, more resilient in suffering, more disciplined, more useful, more agreeable, more accomplished, or even more loved?

But bring me back to the feeling of being in the womb? To a state before longing split me in two?

What if every arrow I shoot is secretly aimed backward?