Nothing I’ve written today is the least bit inspired. I’m trying to delineate or describe some feeling I have. But my attempts don’t even make it to the page.
This is a record of that feeling, a record of the attempt made to describe it, but not the feeling itself.
It’s true, of course, that there is an impossible distance between reality and the abstract, that the two will never meet. So in one sense I could never truly replicate the experience or the feeling. But if reality can’t be copied it can at least be traced. An inference can then be made. Then follows empathy, or at least understanding.
I used to be satisfied taking the path I’ve taken today—the lateral path. Providing not a description—not an object—but a record. I don’t know if that satisfies me anymore.