For those of you who know me personally, you may have seen my attempts to swim in the murky waters of human relationships these last two-three years. It’s been…less than pretty.
The result of having what I thought was solid ground imploding. A sink hole opened up in my heart. I had no idea where all that dark, impossibly icy water had come from. But there it was, and there I was dropped in it. My attempts to climb back out became an ongoing cycle of treading cold water, sinking, gasping and sputtering, finding the surface, treading cold water, ad agnosium.
Some of you may have thought, at times, I was waving. I was always drowning.
Some of you knew as much, reached out a hand. But for all our tries, we barely touched. This or that reason. Hard to know for sure. Failures abounded, lining the muddy walls of the hole I was in. If we want explanations, we could take our pick.
The thing is, I’ve come to the end of it. Or, better said: the water has drained. I’ve found a rope by which to climb out. And now, shivering with shovel in hand, I’m ready to fill this goddamn hole in.
Stories are my soil. Taken not from this hobcob ground my life has been made from. Rather, taken from the solid ground of other universes where my life is good, my heart well-rooted, my dreams planted and growing. The tested magic of imagination brings these realities to my door. I dive in, dig up the riches of those lives, and bring them back.
And with this shovel shaped like a pen, I fill the holes of my brokenness. I scribble endless escape routes should the ground open up like a mawing mouth again. I will be prepared.
So I carry in my mind Fenugreek. Bon. Charcoal. Gravity.
And I bear up in my heart Carbon. Lithium. Akailum. Sekibanga.
I love these otherworldly vapors and atemporal ghosts of more than I ever loved anything.
The imaginary friends of my early years, it turns out, never let me go.
I find it my duty to do the same.