Fog

I haven’t had a clear thought in months dear, Reader.

It’s been like wading through a fog, the air uneasy… like an anxious inhalation just before the sound of squelching mud.

And I don’t know why dear, Reader?

Clarity is dangled in front of me through the opaque concept of a sabbatical. It tingles through my hair, asking myself what I need to do to allow my thoughts to crystallize into something concrete, dense, permanent.

Yet, it is not my words that hold those properties but my thoughts instead. They feel dense, yet soft, concrete before it’s dried, malleable but once hardened, stuck and irresolute, almost sardonic in their nature.

I haven’t had a clear thought in months dear, Reader.

It’s funny. A lot of good writing comes from tragedy.

We relate our lives to the words we pour onto the page. Words seeped through the wounds of our pasts, opened and spilt through our own conscious streams. But what wound holds fog? What tragedy is held by a dried foundation of sand and gravel?

There is no tragedy. There are no words. Because tragedies are told through the memories of those left behind, immortalized in their stories that can be accessed and distributed for others to learn from and perhaps, empathize?

I haven’t had a clear thought in months dear, Reader.

So I sit patiently neither wounded nor tragic, wandering through the fog with neither clarity nor purpose. I do not bleed nor seep. I am no one and my thoughts? They are stuck. Held resolute in their obstinance.

Many good stories have been written through tragedy, but perhaps some stories can never be written?

and you know dear, Reader,

that…

is a tragedy.