Between Living and Shoveling Dirt

The weight of absence

Do you ever find yourself imagining the world without you in it? That happened the other night. It wasn’t so bad.

Different, for sure.

Not bad.

But different.

The negative space created by my absent body in a scene where it otherwise would be took up a weight in the atmosphere with no mass to be accounted for. A tangible void. Like after you dig a hole, but the pile of dirt is still beside it. Is the pile the hole? Or is the hole the absence of the pile? I sat with worms and weeds, watching the world step around my hole.

I suppose it’s healthy enough to imagine the world without you. At least occasionally. Humbling or something. We humans have such big egos that it’s difficult to think that this whole shebang keeps right on turning without us. Liberating, I’ve said. Sad, too. Humbling.

I’m unsure how often I’ve been the pile beside the hole. Again, that was my first experience of such a thing. A different sort of thing. Though I’ve gotta admit, I’ve felt more and more these sorts of ways these days. I’ve pulled back and turned inward. A peaceful withdrawal. It used to be that I’d go so hard until I’d burn out, rest for three months, and dive back in. I was too unsettled to stay on the sidelines for long.

Now? I don’t mind riding the pine. Mostly, I chomp on my gum and organize the helmets. I can muster some advice, but no one’s much looking for it like they used to. At any rate, I’ve lost my resilience for new conversations.

Do you ever find yourself imagining the world without you in it?

I figured I was overdue for showing up here to let you know it’s only in the imagination: this world still has me in it. I’m happy about that, even if I’m somewhere between living and shoveling dirt.