Monday, July 4, 2016
Perhaps when I wake I hear deer eating strawberries just outside the screen. Trees, soaked with the thick air of night, are heavy and hushed. As the light comes in sideways from the east over damp summer buds, I step into a room where I expect to find someone. How is it that we sometimes wake feeling nobody has ever loved us?
Maybe as I take my first step into words each day, I instantly fall into a hole with the sounds I make. Every longing that I have ever failed to see returns to me as a squinting of the eyes as I talk. In the end, everything pours forth – photographs, their history. Books, their ideas. Walls, their sounds. Fans, their flow of air. Beams of sunlight so thin I cannot see them. Some mistake in my heart, a dream of what is missing, that pushes me deep into reflection. As I grow closer to understanding, the more amazed I am at being here at all.