4. Journal of the Movement of the World.
Dusk is falling, and I am biking. The horizon stretches its arms next to me, lying parallel to my path. I am biking toward an unknown in-between, the sky halved over my head into dark and light.
This is clarity, I think. The motion of my wheels, the up-and-down-and-up of my feet. They are constant, they are deliberate: motion keeps me sane even in lonely hours. Fills my days and my nights and all of my in-betweens, and the time passes in a way that makes me feel whole instead of fragmented. Emptiness is relative, after all. Voids that are created change form — and quickly. I feel alone even as the air closes around me, even as I feel myself surrounded by the world, everything suddenly large and bubbling out of the ground and the sky, pushing in toward me.
Claustrophobic…until. Until I remember the brake. The brake. I hit the brake and stop, and unlike night, I do not fall. But now, in stillness, I am not here. I diverge, alone, one rock divided, a deep crease splitting me in half. When we are detached, we are protected. Maybe this is what the end feels like? A breath. A beat. Suddenly, we stop.