Counting

Three years.

No.

Two and two-thirds.

But who’s counting?

I remember that last post below. It was from a conversation with Dan and someone (?). I made a funny. There was laughter. I told myself to blog it later. And so I did.

I also might remember why I stopped. I think it was to get away. Or maybe it was because I got away. It’s fuzzy. I remember wanting to run. To abandon. Maybe to give up. Poor idea in hindsight, but it was important at the moment.

After that? There’s… not much. Not as vivid at least. Two years went by with hardly a thought. Or a complaint. Just a couple faint memories of disruptions in the routine:

Three conferences. Four trips home. People visiting. China. Movies. Moving.

Otherwise there was only:

Work. Games. A friend.

For a year (No. Maybe two.), I didn’t do anything new or met anyone new. Just buried in the familiar. In a single studio room, disconnected from the world. In a lab, waiting for the sun to let me sleep.

And given enough time, it all felt normal. None of it felt off, or strange, or different. It was the way I lived. The life I had. A job that lets me get away with it. People around me who were much too forgiving.

The thing about change is that, when it’s slow enough, it often feels like nothing’s changing at all. Before you know it, you’re somewhere you don’t want to be. And it’s hard to remember if you were ever anything else.

But, sometimes, all it takes is a reminder. Something sharp. Sudden. Something wonderfully and painfully familiar. To remember why you did the things you stopped doing.

To remember why you bothered counting at all.

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