In Some Other Life | 4.4.21

The Sunday Edition

How can seventeen months feel like an entirely different life? How can time, something we invent in our own desperate attempt to make sense of the way all things pass us by, race and rush so swiftly we don’t even notice the gap between then and now? We were two with arms around one another, we were two on the shore of some far off loch, only days into hand fasting and vows spoken into rain and Autumn fog. Now we’re here, now we’re ages from that riverbank, that shoreline, those people still lost in the soft haze of elation and a heart content. We lost a year, all of us, and I wonder if I’m alone in feeling this way, this strange confusion when I look back at those days before the world fell apart and wonder if it was all imagined. We lost a year, and we’ll have to figure out how to get it back, or at the very least, we’ll have to figure out what it means that we never will. In some other life, we continued on, and I wonder who we’d be right now.

I ask you now, you who read this a year from when all this madness began, I ask you and I wonder aloud: Who are you now that you were not before? What have you lost? What have you gained? What have you learned of yourself in the strife and uncertainty that spilled like paint on the white page of a year? Are you happier now, are you more free? Are you broken in ways you don’t know how to fix, are you lonely?

How can time do this to us, how can it shift and steal? A year gone, four seasons risen and fallen and we’re back to where we began but nothing is the same, and I wish to know if it ever will be, again? Will we ever be, again?

Speak to me of you, of the ways this trip around this glowing ball of heat has transformed what matters to that heart in that chest of yours? Let’s connect on this, let’s reach out to one another and see that while different, we are probably so very much the same. Different boats, same sea, the lot of us. We all feel the waves, but how they toss our ships is so very different. Tell us of your storms.

Arm around shoulders

on some distant riverbank,

in some other life.

Haiku on Life by Tyler Knott Gregson

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