The Pursuit of Arrival

“What is there, in the white space that separates the letter a from the letter b? What is there, between two frames of film that are almost identical? And between this drop, and the next, and the one after, so united you might say they advance, clasping each other’s waist? And between the old thought that is dying and the new thought that is being born? Life often goes quiet with minuscule silences, almost inaudible scars, small cracks accumulating into no-being, no-name, no-drop, no-thought. Until the emptiness spills over from being so full.”
— Gemma Gorga.

Something I’ve noticed within myself is that I am often measuring present me against an idealised future version of myself—and, of course, I am never quite good enough compared to her.

As though, some days, somewhere beyond myself, I am simply waiting for my own arrival.

I have gone through many variations of this very pursuit—this arrival—of future me since I was very young.

And while there is nothing inherently wrong with wanting to improve, I have learned to stop and ask: How does this desire feel in my body?

Does it feel expansive and exciting, as though I am honouring my potential?

Or does it feel constrictive, heavy, self-punitive? Is it just another cleverly disguised way of disliking myself—another cruel attempt at editing who I am?

I would never wish, nor ever hope, for this dull ache of self-lack to be realised by any stranger I pass, or by a loved one.

Other days, however, I am right here and right now.

It almost feels like a transition, a seesaw, the blending of a dreamy REM state and reality.

Maybe I shift between these. Maybe that is how life works.

An ebb and flow. A green light of go, a downhill run—until a sudden splinter lodges itself in my psyche, triggering doubt or uncertainty. A pause. A red light of stop, a quiet re-route.

I try to observe myself as gently as I can, to practice non-attachment, because mindfulness keeps me calm, cures disappointment, releases me from expectations. It doesn’t take away the depth of feeling, only reminds me that all I have is now.

And yet, every evening at dusk, I seek relief from the weight of the day, as though meaning will suddenly reveal itself, like a puzzle I can never quite finish putting together.

Meaning to all this.

To myself.

To my purpose.

I time travel almost every time I close my eyes, suffering at the hands of my own labyrinth of memories. I dream of past lives, I pine for memories I’m not even sure exist. I fall in love with every little thing.

I become terribly attached, yet I crave change. A paradox.

I seem to only truly love a place when I know I will leave it.

I worry the people I love don’t quite know how much I love them.

I worry I am running out of time.

I feel I am late for something. What? I don’t know.

Honestly, I think that instead of desperately chasing the horizon of my made-up future self, I desire something else entirely—

Not to escape myself, but to return.

To fold myself into my own arms, wrapping me around me, a protective embrace from all who have come before me.

A reminder:

I am the one who needs the most loving, right now.

I am the one who needs all the tenderness the universe has to offer.

Any future doppelgänger of mine does not even know nor care that present me exists.

I am the one who is real.

I am the one who is alive, breathing air in and out of my lungs right here and now.

So I breathe deep, I look up at the sky, I meet my own gaze in the mirror—without expectation.

I think of Mary Oliver when she wrote,

"So tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

I smile, and answer,

"As much as I can."

But I am also reminded of Marcus Aurelius when he said,

"Do not disturb yourself by picturing your life as a whole; do not assemble in your mind the many and varied troubles which have come to you in the past and will come again in the future."

So in moments of feeling overwhelmed, when the dizziness creeps in, I hold myself.

I take time.

I write. I pray.

And I whisper into the night,

"Don’t worry. Come back to now. There will be time to feel it all again tomorrow."