I Interpret It Thus…

I interpret it thus, this gaping hole as you call it, or feel it:

All artists are tortured souls, and none no more than the writer, for a writer has to put in words what she feels in the marrow, the near unsayable, and translate for people only what can be best felt. Painters and sculptors, on the other hand, can hide in the abstract.

Something drew you from without, back within, from the world and its noise back to the warmth of your mind and its echoes. What? It was in the search, for meaning perhaps, that you did in your absence and in your confessed devouring of poetry, prose.

Don’t tell me, hint at it in that beautiful and pained way of your words. And all beautiful art, and words, are pained.

I find tranquility and resonance as I walk in your words, your most recent ones at least. It strikes me that you ever seem to feel like an outsider, a remove or two from ‘ordinary man’. Maybe this is what makes you such an astute observer.

New light, natural light, is what you say you need. There’s nothing like new light to liven up old windows. Perhaps you’ve been staring in the mirror too long and almost don’t recognize who you see. Looking within for far too long, you only saw a gaping hole.

Looking without, your hole was filled. It is a curse of the quiet and introverted that all problems seem one more thought away from resolution, and even the minnows of the mind become whales.

And just before the light burst forth, I glimpsed the hole, the darkness, and this is a reflection of my being drawn in. Keep drawing us in, with your words and your stories. They need to be heard, to be told. This is my interpretation.

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