It occurs to me, sometimes, in a not-so-morbid, more revelation-like way, that perhaps I was not made for this world after all. I notice this most when suspended somewhere in my deep-thinking web, in the moments I catch reality flickering on and off like a bad lightbulb. Even this morning, 60 miles per hour on the high occupancy vehicle lane to my first real job, I watched as the sunlight painted everything—steel beams, concrete bridges, tar and aluminum—the most gentle kind of yellow-wash. Not exactly, clearly yellow, but tinged to a noticeable effect.

At least, to me. I always notice things like that. Everyone in the city is always running. Obviously, because that’s what cities are built for. Running things and people and other cities and the world. I do not mesh well with cities. I’m much too soft, too timid, too fragile to breathe this kind of air. I like mossy stones by rushing creeks and mountains so blue they look like spilled ink over anything else. I was not made to run, but to watch. Maybe that’s why, on the highway this morning, I cried when I thought of the little pond at my school. A lot of things like that make me cry. Like the idea of the bench we found together and fell in love upon—not necessarily the bench itself—but the idea of it. The concept of having a placeholder to mark that what exists there actually matters. And has value. And meaning that weighs so much more than oak and metal.

And today I cried because I cannot keep pretending that I am built for a world like this. My perfect world is an abstraction. It is less body, less money, more concept, yet again, like the bench I keep thinking of. It is less talk, less grind, less go.

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