A Cry

I am consumed by the desire to create something. Cannot sit still while reading. I want to photograph, but fear that this is some perverse escapism, a ploy to quiet a mind full of questions, uncertainties and unmade choices. Besides, I tell myself, it is too late – I have to get up early tomorrow. The thought has the bitter taste of cowardice, of convenient excuse.

I am not fooled.

And so I write. Write because I am afraid. Afraid of photographing. Of writing, running, lifting, walking, reading, studying, working. Of what will make it and what won’t. That it will all come crashing down in a jangly, twisted mess. That I cannot keep the Rube Goldberg contraption that is my life running like this. What next to jettison? Weren’t relationships, social events, novels, TV, movies and…weren’t they all enough?

What more do you want me to give?