Resting Easy isn’t Exactly Easy

In a grassy meadow somewhere ridiculously far away, a figment of my imagination lies sprawled under a pine tree, my favorite kind of tree. An ever-so-steady breeze blows, the temperature of which can only be compared to the feedback of well-rounded pencil tip on a drawing sheet. It’s the perfect amount of cold to complement the delicious warmth of the sun, a sun that never leaves the sky. Nor do the clouds, and so a part of me lies beneath this imaginary tree in my imagination, basking in the imaginary light of an imaginary sun while an imaginary breeze barely tickles the back of my neck.

For a moment, a part of my mind rests easy. Easier than I’d give it credit for.

And then, the word easy morphs into this impossiblility that kills the idea of the word itself. If I see easy, it’s not easy. It’s tough, for with easy comes the liberty and joy of achieving milestones with minimal effort and the right to brag about those milestones with surprising ease.

And where’s the fun in that?

Because you, my friend are a perfectionist. You can never rest easy, because if easy keeps you from hurling yourself into a familiar abyss; it’s also your worst enemy. Stop, breathe and look back - Easy is right there pushing you towards the said abyss, and you spend one too many seconds wondering what happened. When did easy stop being easy? How did I miss the starting bell? And then you hear the finishing bell, and you’re falling. Falling into this pit that you’ve been inside of before, countless times, each more shame-invoking than the last. And as you stare into the walls that are swallowing you, you can’t help but wonder - when will this happen again?

I really wish resting easy was, well, easy.