Atlas Thursday, September 8, 2022

I crumple.

The world, my world, is the weight I bear. My responsibilities, my decisions good and bad, my hopes and dreams, everything I consider myself to be—the product of my very own existence—is held up by me. I strain trying to stay upright but my ankles falter. I nearly fall but I catch myself. As the world begins to slip out of my hands I tighten my grip and attempt to stand but my knees buckle and the greatest, tallest stand I can take is an imperfect squat—I am unbalanced. Unbalanced by the weight of what has been, what is, and what can be and what I associate with each of them. I begin to think the weight of my world is too much to bear. I fantasize of the relief I would feel if I were to stop.

I begin to yield.

Moments before I enter the cold and the dark of the cosmos, I think—seemingly on my own for the first time in what feels an eternity. Thoughts race across my mind: “Has it all been for naught?”; “Is my life nothing but a memory I will soon forget?”; “What am I becoming?” In this moment before relief, in this moment before disaster, I harken back to my final thought. What have I become? What did I do to come to where I am? Am I simply a product of my circumstances or the mistakes I’ve made along the way? Most importantly, what will become of me if I proceed? In this moment of clarity I lunge forward and grasp at my essence and all its adornments. I grab ahold and my knuckles begin to turn white. I don’t know if I have what it takes. I fear that I don’t. I long for what may happen if I do.

I assume a squat.

I begin thinking of what I may become now that I know I have what it takes. Now that I know the brink of oblivion and its fatalistic attraction is not enough to lure me in, I feel strong.

I rise.

I stop theorizing of what may happen or what I may do—I begin to do. I am unburdened.

I stand.