Sometimes the line between fantasy and fact has become blurred in the journal I keep. Separate from the blog, which at times picks up on themes I’ve been working through, only I read this. A few months back I gave a lecture on the ability to use writing as a method for healing. In my case it was mostly limited to ideas about my daughter with some of the cancer stuff thrown in. I could hear every note of her voice as I constructed this “new world”. It was supposed to help.
At times I know that I have crossed into a delusion that takes some effort to come back from. Not understanding that no matter what I write, as much as it helps me feel anything at the time, it can’t become real. Getting drawn in, like an addict knowing that with the next fix their world will go numb, I keep writing those stories.
Pages in a notebook, reflections of diodes on a computer screen, it will some day fall into the hands of people who are going to be upset not really knowing that these thoughts occupied a space still. Time heals certain wounds, but trying to decide how to live a life on a path I didn’t chose, good luck with that.
I tried to explain Black Holes to my nephew. He’s seven years old and asked a question. I ended up scaring the life out of him with my description. That’s why I wish Neal DeGrasse Tyson had been in the room. He would have made it so simple my nephew would have been able to recite the entire story without any gaps. And certainly not the nightmare I might have induced.
A voice that might be able to capture what I am feeling as much as what I am writing means a lot to me. This topic has always been deeply personal, having someone who knows when to pause at the right moments helps. Where my voice, even the inner one, cracks with certain words or ideas; I believe his might be able to carry a strength mine lacks at times. Not for lack of conviction, but just my own fears coming through and forcing me to relive something few understand. (And I’m grateful my own family can’t understand. There will be time for that in the future…)
My daughter was a ray of light in my life. And like any ray it gets broken up by things in the atmosphere and scattered around in smaller pieces. It’ll be ten thousand years before the light from her candle reaches some other life in the universe. But it still shines. Having someone offer that lesson up is more than I think I may be capable of.
I believe that the part that scares me most is finding that I no longer have any stories to write. That my hopes have left and the stark reality of life replaces everything.