Extension

I reach out for something that isn't there, not expecting it to magically appear, but rather wishing it would. Of course, it doesn't appear. Nothing does. Just me, the air, and my suspended hand in an otherwise empty room.

Confounded by the possibility that whatever I am searching for may never appear, nor may I ever even know what it is, I shed a tear.

Within that tear is more atoms than I could ever imagine. Enough that it may as well be infinite, like the possibilities contained within the life I live.

So how is it that one could truly know how close they are to finding the atom that they feel most paired with?

I ponder momentarily before retracting my arm back close, knowing it was a fruitless attempt before making it, yet knowing that had I not made the attempt then it most certainly never would have achieved the desired result.

So I pondered what it would be like if the atom I longed for would have reached my hand if only I had left it extended but a moment longer, a moment longer within this tear of mine that I call life.

I ponder what it would be like if the atom I long for is on the other side of the planet, or the galaxy, or even the universe.

I ponder if, perhaps, it is better to accept the atoms I swim in daily instead of longing for something I don't even know exists, but I know that acceptance is not something I am quite ready for yet.

So I extend my hand out once more, as well as my other hand, hoping that an experience will lead me to a better understanding of which way to even travel to find something better suited to me than the clothes I wear. Of course it is futile, but I find myself in another space at another time and with no more understanding than any previous point in my life.

But my hands are extended, grasping the air around me as though I am desperately in need of something I don't even know what it resembles, like miracles are real - though in no one's existence have they ever been.

I leave my hands extended until the weight of holding them outright becomes more burdensome than it seems worth, and then I find myself moving on once more. Once again, questioning whether settling for what is right in front of me is worth enough to try to find satisfaction.

The truth is, satisfaction doesn't come - it cannot come, because to be satisfied is to give up on something better, and giving up on something better is the same thing as no longer growing. I know this too deeply, but to strive for solid ground that feels like satisfaction, even if but temporary, means that my arms are once again extended, hoping that something falls into my hands and feels like what I have spent my whole life awaiting.

Even if I know it won't.

-Dustin S. Stover