June was a crowded crossing—think Shibuya or NY Times Square—where I found myself having to pause in the middle of, when my legs could no longer carry me forward. But there was no collision from the people rushing in all directions, as one would expect. I didn’t get knocked over. I didn’t suffocate. Because people, bless their human hearts, swerved around the bump in the road. They moved out of the way to avoid a crash.
Eventually I willed myself to move, as that’s the only way to arrive at my destination.
I got there unscathed.
I am just astounded by how many things fall into place around me even though I don’t do anything that would warrant it.
I sit at the back of a classroom with no intention of talking to anyone, yet somehow three girls single me out and sit with me in the row and strike a conversation about Game of Thrones and dry shampoos and when our professor announced, “Find a group for this activity,” I have no trouble at all.
One Wednesday my digestive system decides to become a poor excuse for a digestive system. But classes are suspended that day. I am able to recuperate at home without missing out on anything.
I spend a good part of one Saturday falling into the isuckisuckihatemyself void, unable to move from my bed, but when I go downstairs some hours later, there’s food, there’s chatter, there’s warmth. Nobody takes notice of any falling apart.
I make next to no efforts to hang out with the students in my section outside of our classes, yet they still (rather excitedly) decide to add me to their informal group chat. (I appreciate the sentiment but turn the notifications off immediately.)
Every morning I lose the battle with my alarm clock and grumble awake, bitchface on, rarely ever ready to welcome the new day. But the day takes no notice—it is always ready to welcome me.
I have started to feel slightly guilty about all of this.
A significant part of my life consists of the consequences of my own choices, yes, but … it’s also true that it’s made up more of the rest of the universe’s tiny adjustments (and non-adjustments) for my existence. That I have absolutely no influence or control over. Yet receive the effects of.
Take this whole studying again thing. (Which, by the way, being that it’s June, has officially been going on for a year now. Yay?) It’s, like, only 10% me actually deciding to do it, and 90% the stars aligning to make it possible at the right time.
All of it makes me feel humbled and grateful, yes, always and always and always. But, I mean, the good fortune and the privilege that I didn’t even work hard for—that just happened to be there for me to take? There’s a lot of that. I keep noticing it. It’s amazing and overwhelming and maybe a little … perturbing.
I feel so … small as a result. Which is not really a bad thing, I guess. Just a powerless kind of thing.
Sometimes it’s just difficult to walk the line between giving in to the masterplan of the Powers That Be that I accept I am only a minuscule piece of, and giving up altogether, you know?
June may have been a little on the I’m-always-hungry-so-I’ve-become-more-neurotic-than-usual side.