The truths of the world in which I live. A morning in which the car needed a jumpstart and a trip to the shop. The daily roller coaster of writerdom. And bad, bad news from an adored friend (this, the most powerful of all.)

Reality is fine for some people. Not so much for me.

Has it always been like this? For me? For writers? For me as a writer? Preferring an inner life that gives one at least an illusion of manageability?

We prefer to live in the clouds. We prefer to live in a world in which things come out right (if we wish them to); a world in which good friends don’t get sick, and people are the best of themselves. Not a world of sunshine and puppies—not nearly. But a world of kindness, in which good wins and bad does not. A world where love is.

I am not naïve. I am not a hothouse flower. I lived in the Big City long enough not to be. I have seen ultimate cruelty and unimaginable good. And yet. How dangerous is it to want that other place, that quieter one? What happens if you try to live there? Where does the other world go? And what happens when you’re forced to go out and dwell in that world again?

I remember a time in which I was so immersed in writing that the re-emergence into the world—for something as simple as a trip to the grocery—was shake-making; akin to agoraphobia. In NYC, one is inoculated, surrounded by people 24 hours a day. But here…where life is car to cube to car to store to car to gym to home…one is more isolated. And to add an isolation by preference?  Oh my.

To my dear one, if you read this, my thoughts are endlessly with you. To life, a plea to please leave me alone for a minute. To my hands, please stop trembling long enough to let me type. Reality does not sit well with me today.

 

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