An outing

Not a philosophical piece. Only a record of a day.

Too hectic of a life for over a month that fatigue has settled into the alleys of my brain like smog behind my eyes. Yet, beyond the demands of my work, on these days and nights, conversations are the only vitality that keeps me awake. With my sight, sharp like stoned red pairs, my fingers stutter across the keys as I type in fragments with wrong grammar, missed spaces, typos that reveal how little I care for precision when I am this drained, and the words I exchange end up filling my stomach more than the actual food on my plate. Sometimes I re-read what I’ve sent, agonizing over the clarity; other times, I simply leave it in their hands — a test of their patience, their understanding, and the manners they choose to display on the slate of our connection.

Days keep piling up, one after another, like a waxing moon, holding me permanently in the gibbous phase. I had hoped for an outing, something light like a winter sun shower, but the door has been shut on my face twice. Another day, they said. And I am done with the cycle of another day. I am done with taking days off because weekends aren’t for me, and I’m certainly done with staying home, especially after only two hours of sleep.

So, today, I refused to accept the refusal. I was already dressed, looking my best, standing like a soldier in the middle of a battlefield, braced for a heat that threatened to melt me. And I think somebody was listening, for after a heavy, stormy rain yesterday, today the sky was partly cloudy. So, despite the “no,” I left anyway. I told them I would send pictures. With a final brush through my hair, I stepped out and melted into the day.

I left everything behind, only emergency cash and my phone, a digital world that lightens the burden of my hands, offering me a little taste of freedom. As I prefer to walk with my eyes closed with a mental Do Not Disturb engaged. No interruptions make a path as smooth as an escalator rising through a modern haven where not even a breath can mingle.

I went to a place I had never been. A place unfamiliar to me. A place with unknown secrets. A place with unexplored corners. It was an adventure for my thoughts, a play staged on the sidewalk, a story on display for anyone who cares to look.

I found the spot we had planned to visit and ordered my comfort. Then, a picture of a drink, food, and me; because without me it cannot be. Without me sitting here, staring into the humidity, the story wouldn’t have a witness.

My appetite has withered alongside my weight over these past months. I am trying to reclaim both, but a full plate remains a mountain I cannot climb. I had the remnants packed to go. I needed to see my lost companion, a twin betrayal had severed us, and while the reasons might demand my understanding, offering a leeway felt necessary. I delivered the food and jumped for a hug. And as a small tax for my labor, I stretched my hand and pulled a bunch of their hair, a cheeky tip for the hard work of forgiveness.

Ahh, my doorsteps have finally met my feet. I am home, physically wrecked but safe and sound. My legs are killing me, and the hunger remains dull. Ordering out would be the path of least resistance, but I chose the second easiest option, making a sandwich. Anyhow, I had to enter the kitchen to make tea. While I wait, I can see the streetlights and the silvery leaves of trees swaying in the wind. I can see myself in this imagery—roots attached, heart dancing.

(P.S. The eyes demanded rest, but here I am, writing on Substack.)