Someone writes something. The words hurt. My sadness envelops me.
Like a warm sweater. On a warm day. And yet, I do not sweat. I become heat. And yet the heat does not burn the sweater off of me. It weighs me down.
I can usually shake off the sweater.
But at some particular moment, I am caught unaware. And then I take to bed, clouded by sweater wool and and over that, down and cotton.
I burrow deep in the hole.
It becomes unbearable.
I walk into the ocean. To put out the fire.
It is dark and scorched and wet and cold and hot and all the things. All the sensations.
And then I re-emerge. I’ve gone through the heat.
Also–(unrelated to this post, but where else do I put this)?: My memoir, TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU DON’T REMEMBER, has an official publication date! February 14, 2007.
I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day, so I’m EXCITED February 14 is now reclaimed for me, forever and ever.