It’s a series of
tiny,
intense
obsessions,
this time of
vital,
precise
preparation.
It’s contemplating
every
single
item
in the house,
counting
their
atoms.
It’s some kind of
urgent,
patient
distress
only felt by those
afraid
but
ready
and unable to act.
.
A list of projects to wrap up before it’s too late:
Finish and publish two books
Hand in gaming paperwork
Finalize the taxes
Schedule two months of posts
Bank six podcasts
Deep-clean the apartment
Have as much sex as possible
Panic quietly
Like I’m preparing to die.
Tying up loose ends for my peace of mind
and
to avoid burdening others when I’m gone.
It’s this first fear –
the one that arrived before the terrors of
pain, recalibration, and loss of control -
the fear of slipping away without saying goodbye,
having unfinished business and unfulfilled potential -
that makes others nervous,
makes them shush and fact-check me.
Mortality doesn’t seem to belong in the conversation;
finality before thirty an uncomfortable possibility.
No one wants to talk about dying.
Except me.
.
“Stress, stress, stress –
it’s just the surgery stress
that makes you distant and cry so easily.
Everything clearly explained by
stress, stress, stress.”
But it’s too simple to blame that
stress, stress, stress
when more than the shape of my
skeleton is changing.
When our love seems its own
stress, stress, stress.
I can’t count the sticky layers of
stress, stress, stress
that have fused together to form
a nameless, soundless black hole of
love and time and work and
stress, stress, stress.
There’s still a me underneath the
stress, stress, stress –
an exhausted and desperate soul
frantic for security in changing times
when everything’s a
stress, stress, stress.
.