“We're mostly empty space. We're mostly nothing. Tra-la-la. And we're all the same nothingness. You and me, just filling the space with nothingness.”
—Ottessa Moshfegh
I noticed a bruise on my arm. Where did it come from? Don't know.
Then I showered and noticed a bruise on my leg. Where did it come from? Also don't know.
I either bruise easily or I'm kind of clumsy or I have a high pain tolerance or I'm forgetful or more likely some combination of those factors, cool cool, I can live with all of that.
Random bruises appearing is no big deal.
Do you ever do that thing where you kind of push on a bruise to see if it still hurts?
I have a bruise on my foot too but I know where it came from. I was unfolding the patio chair and managed to whack my toe on the very hard and sturdy and ouch-inducing metal leg of said patio chair. Now I have a dark purple bruise on the side of my foot, but oddly it doesn't hurt. I keep checking. Why do I keep checking? I don't know.
A teacher requested a childhood photo of M for a class project. So I pulled up the archive of family photos from 2006 on and started looking, trying to find one that wouldn't embarrass her. I was halfway through 2010 before I noticed something was missing.
The sharp, stabbing pain. The sick-to-my-stomach aching nostalgia. The sense of searing loss, the gut-punch of grief that hits me whenever I look at family photos, whenever I see these photos of us, all together, a unit, a family.
This time: it wasn't there.
Just amusement over the funny memories. A sweet nostalgic affection for when the babies were babies. A gentle wave of sadness that things didn't turn out the way I'd imagined. And empty space.
I think the open wound has closed up, maybe. I think I'm in the bruised stage. Still tender but healing. Sometimes I poke it and it doesn't even hurt.
Amazing.
🔗 This was an interesting read about a new term/meme to me, guess I’m not on the internet as much as I think.