Unbound

I have high hopes that today is my last day bound to the sling. My collarbone is feeling better by the day and I find that most of my dreams involve getting back on a bicycle.

I find myself scouring the Internet for new trails to run and bike, and for potential new trips in 2023. Though I am immobile now, it will not be for long. I am eager to be unbound.

I’ve been significantly slowed down for the past month. Though it’s nice having some extra sleep, I cannot stand being incapacitated.

I can’t help but wonder how the bone will ultimately heal. Will it ever feel “100%” again? I’m not sure. I will begin physical therapy soon. I might even do some swimming in order to regain mobility in the arm. I’m not even sure if my swimming technique will be the same. I have to accept that this is okay.

“Fun” is a concept that so many lose grasp of, but to each his or her own.

I find myself thinking of a project manager at work who likes to spend the first five minutes of each virtual meeting with a trivia game. The trivia question is random, never repeated, and can cover any topic.

I find the trivia to be one of the few moments of work that I enjoy. Let me guess at a random, wild, unpredictable question! Without trivia there is only the banality of tasks. However, I hear many employees grumble of “wasted time” when trivia begins.

“I want to get down to business,” they often say, and complain that they want trivia taken away. Any straying from the beaten path is a hindrance to these types. I wonder, how much humanity has been deprived of a soul that cannot enjoy five minutes of time playing a game?

“Time is money,” the ghost of Benjamin Franklin barks into the ears of the industrious. There is no time for smiles: give the bees an agenda and let them forever serve the hive.

Why can we feel like a five minute trivia game is a colossal waste of life, while also perceiving metrics and emails as meaningful? It is this same mindset that cannot enjoy the outdoors or the sun simply for their existence (the outdoors is only a place for transport). The industrious move from one agenda to the next, transported by car to office, and then transported by feet to conference room. Or if the office isn’t necessary, the mind will sit and wait as Microsoft Teams transports this mind from one agenda to the next via screen. Communication sacrifices connection in favor of task.

It scares me how easily people can lose the ability to have fun.

Clive Barker has a quote that goes something along the lines of, “A maggot thinks only of food to eat and the space required to attain that food. It’s only dream is to become a fly. If that is its only dream, who’s to stop it?”

May every ride be unbound and wild.

Where’s the Awe

I wake up intermittently through the night because every turn of the body ignites pain in my collarbone. At least by waking I’m able to prevent further damage to myself. Still, sleep is a chore.

I’m at least finding some mobility returning. I’m putting on button-up shirts more easily, flossing, and nearly tying shoelaces. They are all things that I couldn’t do last week.

I’m finishing a book that I decided to revisit: The Damnation Game by Clive Barker. It’s a favorite from college. I was curious whether the book would enrapture me like it did years ago.

Parts of the book were equally as page-turning, such as the wild and macabre introduction. However, I also struggled to find an off-switch for my inner critic.

This section has too much dialogue, and all of the dialogue is exposition, I’d think.

This section’s character motivation is questionable.

Needless to say, some of the magic was lost. Often in place of story immersion was skepticism. A mind searching for flaws replaced a mind that dared to wonder.

I recognized this inner critic and managed to barricade it for the book’s final section. For a few hours, I was again attuned to my inner dreamer.

What is it about age that causes us to increasingly kill the magic around us?

At times, the industrialization of the mind seems as inevitable as the industrialization of the environment.

It’s as though the process of adulting wrought enough grim realities to shock the inner dreamer into submission. Survival and magic are mutually exclusive. Life is work, politics, and a steady and horrifying debilitation of one’s own body. Where is there time for awe?

Sometimes finding that sense of awe can feel like finding a needle in a haystack. It’s there though, if you allow it to be. Just open a book from your youth and make the choice to see it.