genius death your art is done

Another liminal moment- between houses and places, packing and moving again, this last year I’ve lived so many places, five or six and yet another coming up and after that. It’s hard when you have no sense of place after having roots for a decade or so, everything just kind of feels like water, all days like water. And outside the snow is coming down and everything is covered and the lake beyond is all ice and I think about how cold it is outside- how fucking cold- and how things don’t move in the cold, that all this snow is like little deaths falling in flakes around me. Streetlamps shine light on the snow and I feel like somehow emptiness is everywhere, maybe it’s the water of life, maybe it’s the snow, maybe it’s the writer’s block that keeps me stuck and stranded, I don’t know, but there is emptiness in everything around me, a void between breaths sucking in, and maybe somehow I can see beyond that someday, I don’t know.

Maybe I can find roots again and self again, but maybe I don’t know if I want that anymore. As strange and confusing this can be sometimes, there are benefits to being set adrift, at having your life changed and changed and changed. It’s hard to find ledges to grab onto, yes, there is that, but something is happening something is always happening.  It takes self-discovery to a new level, and you find out who you are somehow, and what you’re capable of and not capable of, all sorts of things changing and in flux, and all the decisions are complex ones, without weights to hold them down in morality. Everything becomes something else, and you see everything in crystal precision  like dancing at three in the morning on frozen street corners, hungry moons overhead staring down at you.

This water can be life, as they say in Coctea’u’s Orphee. This water can be life.

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