What it Feels Like a Few Hours Before Major Surgery

Hungry as all sin.

There are about a trillion things that you want to do before you're rendered useless for the next six to eight weeks.

You want to hike up that mountain you've hiked up every weekend since you were in college, you want to nail that trick you'd been trying at the skate park for the last few months and you want everyone to leave you alone.

Most importantly, you feel worried. You feel worried that the world is going to pass you by again–of course you've done this before so you can reflect a little bit–and that you're going to miss a whole swath of life because you can't walk.

You dread it. You feel sorry for yourself, and you don't tell too many people. You just tell them that you're having surgery.

You think about what used to happen to folks who had surgery years ago. How much longer they spent recovering. You read stories about John Elway and how he can barley climb stairs without wincing and you kiss your knees because you know that they can still be fixed.

You think about a major world event that, conditionally, could happen. You think about how you can't be there to see it, to write about it, to talk about it in the same context as all the people you know are able too.

You think about all the movies with hospital accidents and the people in there who were just trying to recover from an injury they never asked for.

Then, again, you think about yourself. You start to think about all of the details that you never recognized before. You want to call out all the people who double space after periods because of some flaw in their educational upbringing.

You think about all the details with your diet. You don't want to eat any of the same crap that you've been cramming. You're going to be immobile. You're going to get soft. Not fat. Soft. You accept that. You accept it, and you know you have to take it lying down, but you don't let that hunker you.

You buy the good food, like you always have, and figure out how you're going to portion it. You've always eaten well; but you've always eaten a lot. When you get your once a month junk food this time, you'll probably only have one slice of that ginormous pizza.

You think about the books you're going to read and how you'll be willing to give them your undivided attention. You're not going anywhere for awhile.

You think about the people that have it a lot worse than you do, and you wonder why you need to do all of this reflecting.

You think about the people who the world rushes by everyday you're rushing with the world. You think about how you're sort of joining those ranks.

You're not going anywhere for awhile.

What it Feels Like to Not Find What You're Looking For

I have a simple request: I want to write on the wall in the shower.

Why is that so hard?

Anyway, I figured out how. This is America. I can buy it somewhere. But that's not what this is about.

When you have something in your head–you know it exist, you know you've seen it before–and you decide to begin the search for it, you really put your mind to it.

When your mind is on it, you feel great. You feel so focused. You feel like you've never been more resourceful and successful in your entire life, no matter how many times you've dreamed of something and then looked for that something.

All of your energy is pounding ideas through your brain; creative, insightful ways to execute your goal that you can't fathom in day-to-day life.

Your spirits build. You look forward to your triumphant assent to attainment and the gratification that you'll feel having gotten your prize.

You've even invented new ways of doing things that you didn't use before; that you may not use again. You picked up a phone book. You visited the one Asian imports store at the mall that no one ever visits except for rich neardy kids with money to blow on ninja weapons. You finally went into an antique store. You found a way to organize your resourcefulness with better email accounts or simple software.

You found out that other people are doing the same thing you are. They're looking for something.

But you don't find it.

It feels like the time your significant other told you they're going to leave you because they want to. It feels like that because you liken it to that.

You feel lost, hopeless and try to forget about it. You can't remember why you were looking for it in the first place. You just know that it would be a cool thing to have. You got obsessed with finding it and you forgot about the purpose of finding it.

You feel effort without a purpose. And it hurts, maybe not as much as it did when you gave in, but it hurts.

Then, you get in the shower the next morning. You look at the blank walls and you want to fill them up with words.

You invent a new way to look for that magic item. You find it.

You forget about the arc of feelings you had in your un-focused research and you feel better about yourself and your reflection.