100 Words Per Mile: Reflections - 4

I hardly recognize the me from five years ago.

In rereading this week’s 100 Words Per Mile, I was struck by how sensitive I was about opening up to my wife. Five years later, I don’t recognize that version of me. I remember having to learn that lesson. I remember my wife using a game to make me say things out loud. But these days? I will tell her the first thing I’m feeling the moment I feel it.

I’m also a much faster runner than I was back then. These are short runs, yet my pace is something around 8:00 per mile. These days, I’m closer to 7:20 or so, and if it’s a short run? Something like 7:00. I was 30 when I wrote this. It’s nice to know I’m only getter better as I near 35.

Though it’s not to the same extent, I still struggle with nihilism. Running helps. My kids keep it all in check.

I’m a pretty devout in my belief that nothing matters—at least, on the macro level. The notion that “everything happens for a reason” is nonsense as far as I’m concerned, and we trick ourselves into thinking that because we only live one life, so of course everything led us to this very moment.

But that doesn’t mean it was planned or is part of some grand design. Shit happens, and we roll with it, or we don’t, and we make the best of it, or we don’t, and then we die. We’re in a collective denial of our meaninglessness because too many of us associate meaning with “good.” Existence does not beget inherent meaning. Rather, meaning is an artifice we use to build structures of “good.”

My general philosophy is: “Wow, life is bonkers. Might as well have fun.” This doesn’t pair well with every situation, but it’s my guiding principle. But that’s a tangent for some other time.

I have since shared with my wife that I imagine myself hopping roof to roof like a gargoyle to help put me to sleep. That the imagined sensation of shaking concrete off my skin is peaceful. She didn’t think much of it. She’s a fucking treasure.

I also covered the old Nike shoe box in this week’s entry. Somewhere between September 2020 and now, we finally got rid of it. We moved on. My wife and I were reorganizing our daughter’s room, and we agreed fairly easily that it was time. I don’t know that we said much. It’s all fading into the black hole of life before parenting.

What’s bizarre is I couldn’t tell you when that was, either. Might’ve been while she was pregnant with our son. Might’ve been after he was born. Might’ve been before all of it. I’m surprised I don’t remember. It feels like I should, considering how much that box meant to us.

I don’t even know what we did with it. Maybe a future entry will shed some light on that.

There was this belief that we’d bury the box when the time was right. Maybe in the backyard. Maybe we’d mark it or something. It mattered to us to preserve it. Well, we didn’t do that.

So, did we just toss the thing? That seems callous, but I believe we did. If I were to put money it, I would say we put it all in the trash can on the curb and let our tax dollars take care of the rest.

Time heals all wounds? Sure. But so does getting what you want. So does being rewarded for your patience, your strength, and your tenacity. So does exiting the freeway of despair.

For all the fears I had for vulnerability, I don’t believe they apply anymore. At least, not in the case of 100 Words Per Mile. If I can hardly recognize myself, then that means I’m somebody different. These logs to belong to me. They belong to that guy five years ago. It’s his thoughts and secrets I’m exposing, and maybe that’s a violation, but who cares?

That guy is long gone.