Writers & Lovers

One conversation can destroy my whole morning

The geese don’t care that I’m crying again. They’re used to it.

My mother will be worrying about me, and I can’t tell her that I’m okay.

I love these geese. They make my chest tight and full and help me believe that things will be all right again, that I will pass through this time as I have passed through other times, that the vast and threatening blank ahead of me is a mere specter, that life is lighter and more playful than I’m giving it credit for.

I don’t write because I think I have something to say. I write because if I don’t, everything feels even worse.

‘It’s all right.’ The bees in my chest stir.

I’m both the sad person and the person wanting to comfort the sad person. And then I feel sad for that person who has so much compassion because she’s clearly been through the same thing, too. And the cycle keeps repeating. It’s like when you go into a dressing room with a three-paneled mirror and you line them up just right to see the long narrowing hallway of yourselves diminishing into infinity. It feels like that, like I’m sad for an infinite number of my selves.

I’m both the sad person and the person wanting to comfort the sad person. And then I feel sad for that person who has so much compassion because she’s clearly been through the same thing, too. And the cycle keeps repeating. It’s like when you go into a dressing room with a three-paneled mirror and you line them up just right to see the long narrowing hallway of yourselves diminishing into infinity. It feels like that, like I’m sad for an infinite number of my selves.

There’s a particular feeling in your body when something goes right after a long time of things going wrong. It feels warm and sweet and loose

For a moment all my bees have turned to honey