Why does a token of achievement, in its physical form always feel more rewarding? If I win, I win a glossy certificate or a shiny medal. What if the races I run have no set finish line? What if it isn’t about reaching there but about the process of running or hobbling all the way? Why can’t the pain in the ankle or the stream of sweat be good enough markers of succeeding?
Sometimes I wonder how much we depend on our sensations; a touch, a smell, a sound, a taste, or a sight. When things get too much, we want to block it out. Run away to a silent hilltop to mute the chaos. Sleep in a dark room where you see nothing, no one sees you. But more often than not, we deeply rely on these.
I have been waiting for an e-mail for the past few days. I will want to touch the laptop screen, run my finger along the length of the e-mail and make sure that it is in fact, there. Only then can I confirm that my mind has not been deceiving me. The fog around my brain will also probably clear out, once I do receive this mail notification.
Sometimes, in the name of gratitude, I make note of any small good thing that happens in a day. Yesterday, it was that I could sleep well after a long time; I wrote it down in my notes app so that even if my memory fails me, I can still go back and remember this day from 2020. It becomes easier to trust moments if you have written them down; saving all these intangible moments in a web of forever. Yesterday, a kind man made a graphic illustration of a rainbow for me and for once I felt all the tightness around me suspend slowly. The e-mail will arrive, the fog will disperse.
For now, only gratitude.