I don’t know why it’s been so difficult to come to this space, to give voice to something inside me waiting to come out. I used to find comfort in the art of an ordinary hour. I used to hand over a quiet walk or a glance at the sky to words.
Lately, it feels harder to do that. Maybe it is too much like giving away these small moments all together. Maybe I’m not as engaged with the world as I once was. Or maybe the opposite. Maybe it’s easier than it used to be to live them and not reflect upon them. I don’t know.
Likes and comments, retweets and shares — the new ways we show one another we’re out there, we’re listening. I’ll post something somewhere, refresh and wonder what it means to someone else. Are they feeling the same? Are they as outraged, as sullen, as nostalgic, as passionate, as confused, as happy, as curious as me? And, somehow, these new ways we connect, don’t feel like a connection at all.
They feel brief. Fleeting. Like there’s only enough time to say ‘me too’ but not enough time to sit and understand how we are the same.
I feel like we might all be hungry for something we’re not getting.