neurosis and writing

I’m reading some of the things I wrote when I was heartbroken and distressed, and oh my, why are they so much better than the things I write when I’m feeling okay? It’s funny and ironic.

I have been going to the art gallery a lot these days. I’ve been enjoying it so much lately that the last three times I caught up with a friend, I asked each of them to meet me there.

I don’t know. I went there at night during one of the late openings, and I was just moved by the art and the atmosphere. I was left missing things I had never known, or persons I had once known who are not with me anymore.

It’s a weird season I’ve recently entered. After a pretty tumultuous one previously, which really revealed the end of me, this relatively quieter season seems suspicious at best for now.

And I get a little weary as I feel the warmer air on my skin each day. Because I know summers have always been wrought with emotional overload and heartbreak for me. Like muscle memory, my heart wrenches a little at the signs of a warmer season.

But a lot has happened in the past few months, perhaps, almost too much. I thought I was going to die. Actually, I think I did die. So now I go forward once again, not knowing what to expect. But it is no longer I who goes forth. It began with grace, followed by faith, and will end in Love, never to cease.