Forecast: transience

Things I have done since writing my last column:

1. Reread my last column, and found eight things I wanted to change about it.
2. Saw sunshine peek through the permacloud three times, and felt inexplicable bursts of serotonin. Turned to my company each time and told them I was definitely moving to California one day.
3. Some homework.
4. Almost slipped twice in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. 
5. Skimmed through my designated comfort chapters of “Little Women” — a book that I’m allowed to skim because I’ve reread it so many times and surely that gives me skimming rights — and bewildered myself with the number of times I felt like Amy, not Jo. 
6. Added some items of clothing to shopping carts on different sites. Ended up not buying anything. 
7. Sold some items of clothing. Tried my best not to turn an act of sustainable decluttering into an emotional farewell to intimate belongings. 
8. Ruminated. 
9. Remembered to take my vitamins more often than I forgot. 

Things I have not done since writing my last column:

1. Replaced my speaker charger which will only work if plugged in from a hyper-specific angle from one particular outlet in my room. 
2. Got ahead in brainstorming for this one. 
3. Broken free from the labyrinthine cycle between late nights and over caffeinating.  
4. Found a way to be water. To say that I am unbothered and steady. 
5. Mastered the material for my Econ exam. 
6. Unsubscribed from email lists I don’t need anymore. 

It’s been a persistent winter, and the other day, while it was warm for a split second, I knew I’d jinxed it the moment I asked the Uber driver on the way to Olf’s if she thought the weather would stay this nice. She said yes, she did think so. Now we’re both disillusioned. 

Did you notice how my first list was longer than my second? I swear I dedicated the same amount of time to coming up with points for both. Nine eclipses six, and I’ve gotten more things done than I haven’t. 

I’ll feel accomplished about it, and you’ll maybe go and make your own lists. Or don’t, just revel in mine. But I’ll wager that sometimes you feel overwhelmed, maybe you feel like there’s always more to be done. 

Or maybe I make no sense to you. 

But in the interest of probing, I think I might make some more assumptions.

I’d like to assume that you're also trying to find symmetry between attainment and respite, between growth and contentment. That you sometimes lose track of time staring at a ceiling fan, snapping into consciousness only to half wish you’d stayed in that suspended haze. 

I’ll imagine that some nights, when you are trying to sleep, it gets unnerving and loud, and you have to stay up playing Tetris or blasting The Cure to get it to wrap up and quiet down. 

That you nod along while conversations drift over your head and then evaporate, and you’re actually there but you really aren’t, you’re thinking about brunch tomorrow or the text you’re waiting for, or you aren’t thinking about anything at all. 

I presume that you’ve found yourself mid-scroll, finger hovering over the Eternal Feed, and wondered if this is what they meant by “digital natives,” and if the normality of your screen time can justify the heap of hours it’s nabbed away.

That you would know what I mean when I would dramatize to say that anticipation feels like exhaustion and achievement feels like an obligation. 

Or maybe I make no sense to you. 

But that hardly matters.

Remember when I single-handedly jinxed the weather? What’s funny is, you’d think by now we’d know not to hyperbolize a glimpse of warmth in South Bend’s January. 

Still, we magnify the ephemera, and brevity makes us giddy. It almost feels like we're in on the same joke, one that doesn’t quite land. That’s pretty nice to think about. 

So enough of the melancholy, and more assumptions — let’s just surmise it together. 

I’ll bet that you still have your quiet margins, that there’s cracks in between the noise. And there, you can make lists that aren’t at all about what you have or haven’t done. People on the internet love to call it a gratitude journal, but I’ll bet your list is too subtle and sophisticated to call it such a sappy thing.

Things that make it better: thick socks, wired headphones, calling home, banana cake, clean sheets, fresh air. 

Things that never change. Things that are coming up. Things you avoid because you like them too much. People you avoid because you like them too much. People that you don’t talk to anymore but are forever lovely to you. People that you talk to every day and are forever lovely to you. 

Contrary to what that wellness influencer drones on about on the Eternal Feed, you don’t really need a gratitude journal. You know the list. You don’t even need a pen to embody it, because it’s all fact and it’s all solid. All the brevity and transience in the world couldn’t diminish it. 

Or maybe I make no sense to you. 

You can suppose that I may eventually slip in the Trader Joe’s parking lot (knock on wood though), that in due course I may make it past the 2 p.m. slump without coffee, and that I may be staring at the ceiling fan tomorrow. But while doing so, I may ultimately conclude that we are quite wonderful. 

You can certainly assume I’m categorically confused and can never cut back my screen time, and that this all feels curiously vulnerable to share — and that you make total sense to me.