It is, as they say, indescribable. When trying to explain how the Grand Canyon is, all I can say is “it’s an experience.” When I break it down in my head I think, well it was just a bunch of rock formations that looked pretty uniform from my view. But walking up to the Grand Canyon was like Disneyland. I didn’t know which direction to go, what tram to take, and what spots to avoid. Feelings pulling me left and right and finally being at the edge of the rail staring into that gigantic crater, that my internal panoramic vision frantically failed to capture, all I felt was a flood of emotion within me that was utterly surreal. Perhaps I am one of those sensitive writer types and that’s why my eyes drowned with suppressed emotion that drained down my throat into the pit of my stomach. And if I could describe or define that feeling it would be: absolutely nothingness. I was standing in front of one of the natural wonders of the world and I felt like I was absolutely nothing. I needed to feel like nothing because it was a reaffirmation that all the bullshit that fuels my depression meant nothing when measured against the earth. And everything that had transpired the last six months, unrequited love, cheap fucks and a shitty job meant nothing on the grand scale of nature. I was less than miniscule. Thousands upon thousands of little souls have walked where I walked. They stood where I stood. They gazed at the same wonderous hole I gazed at. Usually, something like that would make me feel insignificant but instead it made me feel like I belonged to the same nothingness that everyone belongs to.
I don’t know if that makes sense but it made me feel a thousand times better. It relieved my months worth depression over a “break up”, quotation marks done on purpose because it wasn’t a real relationship. It was a five-year friendship where the last 2 years of it involved on/off “complicated” feelings and midnight rendezvous. I’d be a liar if I said I still didn’t think about it on lonely nights. And when I stay up thinking about it, I think about how much I miss that feeling of post sex talk. Well, I miss the sex too of course. I miss that feeling after sex when the speed of our breath slowed down to normal and we analyzed the acting merits of Marlon Wayans. That’s what I miss because nothing else is as genuine and random as post sex talk with someone who shared their most guarded secrets with me and vice versa. I was his best friend, a fact that he lamented as he tearfully tried to persuade me to take back my goodbye. But to reduce this sentimental moment to typical heartbroken woman banter, men are fucking stupid. And even though I loved him, I fell for him for the wrong reasons. We bonded over violent histories and when my friends asked why I was even his friend I used one of the battered woman excuses “You don’t know him like I do” but the truth was and is that he is a simple man with simple tastes. I on the other hand come from that history of complicated aspiring women writers. I am Dorothy Parkers soul sister and simply put, men just don’t know how to fucking deal with us so they prefer to chase a pretty face with simple thoughts than an ok face with critical thoughts. That’s how it is in relatively small cities.
And I’m standing there, on the edge, holding on the rail and I’m gazing at the depth of whatever square meters my vision is able to mentally capture as memories. And one thought permeates in my throat, I am nothing; all that was nothing and it wont matter but I am wiser because of it but it doesn’t matter anymore and even though the past erodes slowly and each lonely night hurts, one day everything will stop and the craters in the abyss of my heart are signs of survival, of existence and growth. But it all boils down to one seminal sentence: Fuck that shit. I am not better than the women he will fuck or love. He is not better than the men I may fuck or love. I have come to accept that some things just aren’t meant to be. Sadly, I have come to realize that plots to Ashton Kutcher films don’t work out so well in real life. Sometimes you just don’t find your car but most importantly, friends with benefits rarely have happy endings.I guess if I could describe the Grand Canyon it would be that place where you go and decide to let go of negativity and to fuck that shit to hell.
The silence and serenity of the Grand Canyon held millions of dumped thoughts of the heartbroken, the lost and the depressed when I peered into it. That isolated breeze where I stood still rejuvenated my soul. The Colorado River in the distance, with its blue green fresh water, represented the rebirth of my creative spirit. And even though time erodes slowly and some nights hurt, and the lines on my forehead and in the corner of my eye will soon start to show, I am nothing. When I am nothing there are no limits and everything is possible.
But you know, the Grand Canyon is probably just some big hole of nature and I’m just some sensitive writer type that over thinks everything. Whatever.