A Soul’s Journey

I remember the moment I arrived. It was both light and dark. Utter presence. I’m not sure how else to say it. I knew where I was without knowing anything at all.

   Then there was sound, shape, sensation. A woman’s voice, not speaking but humming. I remember that. I remember warmth. Damp. Hunger. Then, a name. I never really liked the name. They said it to me again and again, like a spell. I didn’t understand it, but I accepted it. I answered to it. 

   Soon there were other things. A mirror, for one. I saw a face and they called it mine. Hands, feet, fingers that curled and opened. I was shown the parts and told, this is you. I believed them. Who else was going to know?

   Then the toys. Bright plastic things with buttons and songs. When I pressed them, they excited me. When I let go, they went silent. That made sense to me. I got the message early, “grab hold to make stuff do what you want. Let go and lose it.”

   Later, I wanted sneakers. The ones with the little lights in the soles. Not because they were good shoes but because of other kids, and the lights were pretty. I was laughed at for wearing the wrong kind. That laughter stayed longer than any scrapes. I didn’t know it, but I was starting to trade pieces of myself to satisfy him.

   They told me I was smart. That I needed to pick what I wanted to be. So I picked a thing. Then I picked another. Each choice narrowed me, like a hallway that gets thinner the further you walk down it. I learned to say what they wanted. I learned to hide the things they didn’t ask for. That’s how I got invited in. That’s how I fed him.

   I started accumulating. First it was friends. Then grades. Then clothes. Then awards. Then lovers. Then a car. I bought stuff I couldn’t afford and called it ambition. I said yes to jobs I hated and called it progress. I built a whole life outside at the cost of everything inside.

   Once, I was still. I sat at a red light and looked at the man next to me. He had my same face, just older. That was the first time I felt it, the call to something more. Something deep and important and almost familiar. But then the light changed, and I drove on. I told myself I was stressed.

   I bought a couch. I bought a better couch. I had people over to sit on it, then complained when they left stains. I had a room I never used, just in case. I put things I didn’t use in it. I had insurance on things I never touched. 

   I took pictures of meals I couldn’t taste the way I should have. I was always filling myself. I laughed without meaning it. I said “fine” more than any other word. I’m fine. They're fine. It’s fine. I forgot what I used to ask when I stared at the stars.

   I stopped dreaming, except for when I stopped smoking. Then I’d see things. Water I had to wade through, a girl that felt important, a dark door I never wanted to open. I never stayed long. There was always something to wake up for. Meetings. Bills. The dog needed to be let out. The mirror needed checking. The alarm was always there. 

   Near the end, I gave advice. People were still saying I was smart. I really just said less and nodded more. I wasn’t there for it most of the time. I was always with him. I never knew how to describe it. Only that the beginning light had faded into its dark companion.

And then I left.

I didn’t take any of my things with me.