PSYRAW FLUX

So you bought Quantum Listening.

Yeah. The title sounded like it would fix me.

Fix what exactly.

I don’t know. The part of me that can’t sit through my own thoughts without needing to check my phone or make a list or do literally anything else.

And did it fix you.

I highlighted half of it. Understood none of it. Because I was listening for instructions, not……

Not what.

Not whatever the fuck the book was actually saying. I wanted steps. I wanted “do this and you’ll be transformed.” The book kept talking about listening as cellular change, about reclaiming receptivity as power, and I just kept thinking okay but HOW.

You want a manual for wildness.

Shut up!

I am you.

I know. That’s the problem. Women Who Run With the Wolves is still on my shelf, isn’t it.

You’ve started it four times.

And every time I get to La Loba collecting bones and singing them back to life and I think yes, THIS is it, this is what I need, and then……

Then you close the book.

Because actually sitting with what my bones are saying feels like being flayed. Happy now?

Why would that make me happy.

Because you’re the part of me that wants me to admit things. The part that won’t let me just highlight pretty passages and call it growth.

Estés talks about rumination as sacred. You ruminate plenty.

That’s not sacred rumination. That’s obsession. That’s me picking at whether I said the right thing , whether I’m performing healing, whether I’m performing wildness, whether I’m performing authenticity so hard there’s nothing authentic left.

So stop performing.

How.

I don’t know. I’m you, remember? I don’t have answers either.

Then why are we doing this.

Because sitting with not-knowing is supposedly the point. The quantum physics thing: observation changes reality. When you truly listen, you collapse all the possible versions of yourself into one actual moment of truth.

And what’s my truth right now.

That you’re scared. That you’ve been scared your whole life and you’ve dressed it up as sensitivity, as depth, as being “in tune.”

??

Again, I’m you.

There’s supposed to be a Wild Woman inside me. Instinctual. Knowing. Connected to ancient feminine wisdom or whatever.

But when you try to listen for her

All I hear is my own voice asking if I’m doing this right. Is this what wildness feels like. Should I be feeling something more.

Maybe the Wild Woman is tired of your shit.

What?

Maybe she’s been trying to speak and you keep asking her to use the right vocabulary. To make sense. To sound like a self-help book.

I just want to understand.

No you don’t. You want to get an A in being wild. You want to ruminate perfectly. Transform in the right way.

Estés says women need to stop being nice and start being real.

And you don’t even know what real is anymore.

So what are you going to do about it.

I don’t know. Sit here? Feel uncomfortable? Write this dialogue like it’s going to solve something?

Is it solving something.

No. But at least I’m not pretending to listen while actually just waiting for instructions.

That’s something.

Is it though. The wolves in Estés’ stories don’t read books about being wolves. They just are.

And you’re just……

Here. Not wild. Not transformed. Not quantum. Just sitting with the fact that I wanted these books to change me without me having to actually change.

You’re listening to that now.

I’m trying to.

Without making it beautiful?

I’m trying to.

You’re not saying what you really feel.

I mean it! Still trying to make it mean something. Still trying to extract a lesson. Still trying to turn sitting with discomfort into another achievement.

So just sit then.

I don’t know how.

Neither do I. We’ll figure it out.

Will we though.

Probably not. But we’re here anyway.