or so my therapist tells me. find the evidence behind the emotion. know that you will rise again, like you always have. but oh, how quickly i come undone. i’ve clouded over in a matter of weeks, gone from mirror lake to toxic whirlpool. for so long i’ve seen straight to the bottom of my desires, clear-eyed and unblinking. now to be lost in this muddy confusion. no longer at home in open ocean, i retreat into myself, filling page after page with my torrid scrawl. write until i bleed my pen dry, negating my wrist’s hard-won healing. grace foregone.
at some point i run out of words, so i breathe instead. remind myself this is the most important work i could be doing. imagine what i’d preach given the gift of perspective. start by taking a page from my client and operating with no sense of urgency. there is no hot pursuit through the jungle, nothing to be hunted down. treat your days like a thriller, resisting the urge to wiki the synopsis. relish the poetry it gives you. know that this tide will recede soon enough, even if it doesn’t feel like it. for life tends toward equilibrium, like a wave coming to shore. as steinbeck said, nothing good gets away.