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the stairwell.

for many of us, there came a day we were plucked from the playground and thrown into a dark, narrow stairwell. the door slammed shut and with nothing to do but climb, we started slowly, hands on the banister until we could take the steps two at a time.

you meet all kinds of people in the stairwell. some are happy for a chat, some will keep pace for many floors, even as others fall away. you discover a lot on the stairs. there are drugs that can make them go faster or slower, some that make you forget the stairs even exist.

but when the stairs end, everyone disappears and there’s nothing but wall. you’re in the best shape of your life, and now this version of you, who climbed by sheer force of will, adrenaline, identity and joy, finds herself stepping into an elevator for the first time.

the elevator does not want you jumping to stimulate movement. no pushing random buttons just to see what happens. no more smoke breaks or eating too much or drinking too much because that just starts to feel bad.

there are no windows, just like in the stairwell, but you can’t feel the floors. and this is extremely disorienting. you can feel your body deconditioning. and that’s how you know a part of you has to die. as you grieve, you become the version of you who trusts. the one who receives. the one who steps into the being that follows the becoming.