I wonder what I’d be like if I weren’t crippled by earthly emotions, and could respond to the coldness of loved ones by giving them more love. If I were above the fray, I could clear-headedly evaluate a situation like someone drifting away from me and act cleverly to circumvent it or turn it around, instead of feeling hurt and drawing inward instead. The advice I give others who are lost comes from a detached and objective view, which is why the advice works. But when I’m the injured party, it becomes extremely difficult to focus outside of the pain to find the actual bullseye one-strike target. I’ve developed enough control over time to keep from firing everywhere haphazardly and desperately (which from past experience has created more irreparable harm than good), and I know it’s more effective to start with a cool-headed analysis and make the one simple and strategic hit that will resolve everything. Why am I using a battle metaphor?

Emotion is what clips our wings, makes us human. I’d love to be ethereal enough to look down at the chessboard and think, “I’m here, you’re there; you’re there because of this and that move, and the goal is to bring us together. That can happen if I stay patient, low-key, and send small, unintrusive things your way to show you and remind you how much you are loved. When you have time to remember me, you’ll come.” Instead, I hurt, I reach out, feel rejected, ball up, and wait for strength to run the other way.

A friend asked me, “You are so tactical, how do you not rule the world already?” Another fairly frequently asks, “Where do you see [yourself] going?” The answer is the same; my sight is muddy when it comes to my own life, because otherwise what’s the point of being here if I already KNOW everything? So I study the chessboard, and I make guesses — blind ones when it comes to my own life — and fight the urge to run, because I feel it’s my duty to pay attention and learn while I’m here. That’s the best I can do without my wings.