You: I should be a little more afraid of you than I feel right now. Somehow, you’ve made my calendar evaporate into thin air, and now I’ve got two weeks staring me in the face with an axe in hand, saying “HEEEEERE’S JOHNNY”. How do I tell my body to start freaking out a little more?
You: are what I care about the very least right now. Stop getting in the way.
You: It feels like we’ve gotten to a truce, sort of. You’re alright, in doses. You’re overpriced and annoying, but most connecting flights are. It sucks having to wander around for two hours, browsing through the airport stores for watches and t-shirts and massage pillows that you’ll never buy – but eventually, it takes you to where you want to go, with who you want to be. That’s your merit. Whether the in-between waiting time is 2 trimesters or another year or all four depends on a whole other list of things, and that isn’t really your fault. I guess.
You: Still not so sure about what I want to say to you. Mostly, I want to list off a bunch of church/fire puns to get rid the knot in my stomach (Stake Conference burned them out. The Spirit of God like a fire was burning. and so on). It’s a weird feeling, like going up the stairs and taking another step when you’ve already gone all the way up. Your foot comes flying down through empty space and comes to a stop before you were ready. It isn’t immediate tragedy, it’s more like an uncomfortable disorientation. Where’s the floor? Where’s my foot? Where’s my chapel?