The Magician

I want to pretend that I’m brave for a minute.

I begin by looking around at what is in reach. I compose a list:

Some artifacts from the past. Newly acquired possessions that once helped me, but now only remind me of what’s not mine. A diverse list of long-distance contacts. A gecko. Old clothes I’ve repurposed, and re-repurposed again. A variety of breakfast options, with only a handful of mornings to enjoy them. A collection of reiki candles, incense and stones. A backpack that is falling apart. A studio apartment of 150 square feet, at best. A car with well over 200k miles on it. A fulfilling job where I am disposable. A nearby Greek café that sells pink chai lattes and gyro platters. A modest edible garden fighting against unseasonable frost.

Then, some things I don’t have.

Inspiration. Joy. Wonder. Discovery. Companionship. Love. Time. Money. Support. Belonging.

I'm reminded of something that emerged from the ether a long time ago.

Metanoia came about from nothing and is everything. At first this is difficult to grasp, but there are moments of clarity in life and spirit when the idea that nothing is something, and something can be anything, begins to make sense. 

It echoes from the distant past. I don’t know how to get back to that place. I’m not meant to. The only way is forward.

I recognize all the places I gave myself to, and all the ways I did this. I see all the ways in which I was used rather than seen.

I’m visited by the void, a place I know very well. An endless expanse of nothing in which I am the only thing that perceives me.

Desperate, I want to wake up. I want to go home to a place where I’m seen and my needs are met, something that can’t happen here.

I want to pretend that I’m brave for a minute.

I confront the nothingness, look straight into it, and dare it to be something.