Dear World,
It's time, I think, the time that I said would come, when the string of pearls first broke. The time I said would be looked back on, would be seen from a far distance forwards, but looking back. (Stand in the place where you are).
What is here, now? I feel it, the presence of the huge impact of the Pandemic, but, I look around, standing in the place where I live, and I see that we don't talk about it. (We have turned away?) The emptiness, the slowness, the worry and the fear, the honesty. I don't think they have exactly gone away. I think they may be there, here, like huge thundercloud ghosts, ready, (raw, open, bleeding) to break open on some little party, some small hope.
I proceed now, cautiously. Not only because of fear, that's the thing I wanted to tell you: It's also because I liked the pure sharp edges of those days. The rarefied air of loss and longing was like the thin atmosphere of a high peak- like, a smallness within a bigness, like an exposure to the elements and suffering and hope, too, that was so immediate. It was just so much 'less' of everything.
I believe that is why I have wanted to empty my living spaces; cupboards, drawers, closets, boxes, chests. I want some empty space made for that high-pitched purity of purpose. Very little of "You Should" crossed my mind then. It was a vacation away from You Should, I think, because You Couldn't and maybe that is what I miss.
