I have vignette writer’s block.
Everything’s a one-way trap right now. The world tumbles into my brain, sloshes around, and generates all sorts of feelings and sometimes snippets of thoughts, but I’m unable to form any sort of narrative.
It’s the evoked memory of feeling carefree as a child while looking at electric blue Forget-Me-Nots against a field of green, but having no story around that memory other than the moment of standing there, looking at at flowers.
It’s the undifferentiated rage that erupts past the seams of many layered, buried, and compartmentalized moments of anger across a lifetime, triggered by something completely outside of my control, leaving me shouting demonic gibberish at the universe in my inability to articulate anything coherent.
It’s the tender moment of a son reaching for my hand as we lay down together for a nap.
It’s the juxtaposition of a sublime, solitary pleasure while harvesting oysters and enjoying the wonders of the varied life in the tide flats contrasted with the unsolvable horror of turning to see the shore swarming with people and realizing I’m part of the swarm decimating the environment.
It’s the lost in time drowse, unsure if the memory gliding through is from today or years past.
It’s feeling the inevitable pull when looking at a demographic chart and noticing I’m already halfway or more, if I’m lucky.
Each moment a dewdrop that evaporates with the rising sun, but there’s no story to tie them together. No story at all.
Heather Kilbourn 