Published on the 12th of Squid 157 at A:E:3.
“How are you?”
In that instant, my mind fractures into a thousand pieces, each shard spiraling off to ponder the question with the seriousness of a jury deliberating the fate of the universe.
“How am I?” Well, am I not a product of every moment I’ve ever experienced, every sandwich I’ve regretted, every puddle I’ve accidentally stepped in? I begin cataloging everything: the burrito I ate last week (still lingering like a ghost in my digestive tract), the vague sense of nostalgia that hits every time I hear a door creak, the fact that I forgot my umbrella during that rainstorm two years ago and felt oddly liberated about it. These memories swirl into the shape of a polite shrug, but, wait—too noncommittal?
Maybe they’re asking if I’m existentially okay. Am I hurtling towards the grand abyss of purpose? That’s more difficult to answer. I could respond by unpacking that lingering, ever-so-slightly worrying feeling that I’m just a sophisticated sock puppet animated by a consciousness too preoccupied with wondering why I’m here to actually enjoy being here. But then, of course, I’d have to explain the sock puppet bit, and that’s a whole thing.
“What if they just mean physically?” my brain suggests, tiredly. And oh, well, in that case—I can go on for hours. How’s my back? Like a soft pretzel, particularly one that’s been wedged between two rocks and forgotten in a humid cave. My left knee clicks when I walk down stairs, my right pinky feels like it’s harboring a tiny grudge, and I’m at least 48% certain my digestive tract is trying to form a labor union against me. But how do you put that into words? How do I encapsulate my entire corporeal breakdown without sounding like I’m about to offer them a pamphlet on herbal remedies for joint pain?
But, maybe, maybe, they’re not asking about my health or my existential status. Maybe they’re asking who I am, really—“How are you?”—a question which opens up a whole labyrinth of paradoxes that would make any philosopher weep. I mean, do I really know myself? If I answer with, “Good,” does that negate the other 137 emotions I’m feeling right now? Am I even legally allowed to be “good” while simultaneously worrying that I left the stove on, debating the nature of love, regretting all my unfinished art projects, and wondering if pigeons have favorite colors?
Then again, maybe they don’t want any of that. Perhaps they just want a quick, “I’m fine!” A nice, concise brush-off that would satisfy social decorum, leaving both of us free from any deep-dive into my kaleidoscope of self-doubt, but—wait, am I fine? Can I honestly, in good conscience, say I’m fine? Is this fine? Or am I about as “fine” as a cat stranded in a rainstorm with a Wi-Fi router that doesn’t work?
I can’t say “fine,” because then I’m lying. But if I say “Not great,” there’s a risk they’ll respond with more questions—perhaps follow-ups about my mental well-being, or (heaven forbid) they’ll look at me with eyes that pity me, eyes that assume I’m far worse off than I actually am. After all, I am functioning, technically, and if I say, “Not great,” am I undermining the people who are truly not great, who are capital-N, capital-G Not Great?
In the thick of this crisis, I realize that seconds have passed. They’re looking at me, their eyes softening into a slight worry, and I’ve got to say something, something that captures this impossible kaleidoscope of existence and conveys both sincerity and stability.
“I’m…” I start, as my brain scrambles one last time, combing through every response from the blandest “okay” to the most melodramatic confession I can imagine. In the end, I let out a quiet sigh, summoning every ounce of my fractured self into two perfect, nonsensical words that I hope will cover the entire spectrum of human experience in the least alarming way possible.
“… you know. Alive.”
They nod, satisfied, while my brain retreats into itself, leaving me wondering if perhaps that answer was the most honest one after all. But just as I start to relax, I feel a sudden, sharp coldness seeping into my chest. I glance down, confused, only to see a dark stain spreading across my shirt, blossoming from a thin, gleaming knife hilt I hadn’t noticed before.
I look back up at them, my lips parting to ask why, to understand, but they only shrug with a casual smile, as if to say, “Wrong answer.”
And with that, I begin to laugh, realizing my answer had—in fact—never been more true… or more fleeting. But in the end, none of that mattered.