I used to take pictures of the moon, sepulchral, luminous, transfixing, displacing me and my thoughts, my ideas run amok, like one one of my characters far afield over brook and fallen log.
Used to wander the streets at night, down by the river, down the street by an apartment with golden-glowing windows, like liquid welcome in the night.
Also used to write and used to lose myself in flight of fancy.
But now I have stopped snapping shots, stopped meandering, stopped writing, so that all that remains, as the tide pulls out, are my ideas.
And they are fine ideas, perhaps superb ones, enough even for dreams, for stories, maybe even novellas or books, but I can only play with them and turn them over and not help them realize their true shape.
It's grief, I know, but not the kind you see in so many films where characters burst into weeping. It's deeper. The tears are a release of the sadness, an expression, not the bereaving itself.
I used to feel this stress and mournfulness in my hips and stomach. Now this heaviness has moved up to occupy my shoulders, my chest, my head. You think you know about sadness until you lose someone you love . Then all you've got is this weight in your stomach, this pull, this leadenness, as everyone treats you as though you are fragile as glass.
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