Since I submitted my essay, I've been feeling quite odd. I mean, I had been living with this essay, or the idea of it, for quite some time: reading, writing notes, visiting studios, conversing with artists, and drawing everything—sensations, memories, experiences—into the vortex that is the text. A lot of emotions were felt during this time, mostly confusion and despair; toward the end, exasperation, exhilaration, even joy. There wasn't much left for the world outside of the text; I was distracted, often remote. Then, somehow, the essay took form. It became this decently dressed thing I could send out into the world, and when I did, I was no longer living in the text. The gate is closed and locked, and a thick, impenetrable wall of briar has grown around my former domicile. I can never return. So afterwards, I feel emptied, as if my vital parts are trapped in that locked realm, leaving only the rest to pine for what’s missing.

The only solution, I suppose, is throw myself into office work, dates with friends, art exhibitions, movies, and loads of fiction. Fill my depleted self up with shiny bits gleaned on short journeys offering green vistas. Oh, and do nothing as well, just stare into space, preferably a blue sky, for long periods of time.

.

<<