The story of my past fortnight is complicated.
A package arrives. It contains pieces I left behind. Literally. And a note. The tone of this note is distant, deliberately so. It dares me to respond. Trying to push my buttons. And it does. Every. Single. Button. This note is everything I’m not. Impassive. I crumble for days. Searching for an ending that will never come, I realise (but for two loose ends) the conclusion has come. I again note that I’m not the screenwriter of this tragic coming of age story. Nor am I its editor. The final reel is running through the projector, the music is swelling. The credits are about to roll. Fade to black. Exit stage right. But wait…
Logic and emotion are antithetical.
Thirteen days later the plot is retold. It feels like I’ve done this a thousand times. But it has only been three. This is the first time I have gone through the process without being caught up in it. Without knowing what the audience’s response will be. I’m taking a risk, but this is more comfortable than the previous occasions.
‘I get it.’ There is a knowing smile.
There was no hug. No audible gasp.
‘Sometimes you’ve got to take a chance’
'You have to keep trying.’
This is the first time that I feel like I can recover.