The best I can tell I slept 10:10 hours. Until 8:48 ish or so, a feat unfathomable to my M-F brain. My M-F brain searching for the usual panic associated with sleeping in. With wasting time. With not optimizing.
This rest though, it's palpable.
Maybe it’s the sleep, but today I don’t feel bad. I feel weird. There’s a fullness. Feels like I could run a long ways. Feels like I could pick up a guitar and write an albums worth of songs.
Everything feels possible.
//
It’s still.
I want to latch on to this stillness.
I want to grasp with everything I have.
I want to figure out how to recreate it.
To make it my default.
//
As I have no other outlets I write. Propelled by a need to say this out loud. To share this feeling so that maybe someone else can join me. In feeling. In soaking in this momentary invincibility. I know it's not shareable. As if there is such a thing as an emotional Kit-Kat, crisp chocolatey wafers ready to be snapped off and handed over.
“Take this!” I think. “Take a bite. It will take you back to that time before you were constantly chasing. Constantly grasping."
It tastes like 1982 or so. Back when it was always like this.
//
I pause and think of this(these) writings. I allow myself to say “These words are good. You are good at this.” I allow myself to know that someday, maybe today, my readership will explode and more people will think this. More people will want it.
Today I believe it.
I allow myself and this reveals that I’m the one controlling what can happen. I’m the one holding me back.
We all are the ones doing this.
I vow to not be. To release my grip and believe this.
I am immediately sure of this and again feel pulled and compelled to push you to allow this too.
To believe in you with 100% surety.
That you can have all you want.
Release (me).
Release (me).
Release (me).
I’ve repeated over and over and over for the last few days. Since I awoke with a song from 1992 in my brains.
This morning.
If only for a moment.
I sit emancipated from myself.
It feels full and still and good.
My first immediate thought when reading your words drew me back to the move they made about Prefontaine. Mack Wilson watches begrudgingly as a young Prefontaine runs around the track standing next to their Coach Bill Bowerman. Mack says, "Cocky little mother." The coach instantly responds, "I'll like to bottle it and force feed it to the rest of you." Damn, to get back to those days when Uncle Rico felt like he could throw a football over that mountain. Your words took me back to when the body did indeed feel like it was super charged, and somehow, had not forgotten how to sleep through the whole night.
What are you reading these days?