Been awhile.
And, I don’t expect you to understand or know fully and, quite honestly, I’m not trying to explain it anyway.
But, there are moments that do. That can. That reach down and pull me out of my melancholy, my numbness, my stuckness, my fear. That zing me back into internal movement. A reminder of the human experience with pain with love with mystery with beauty with risk with adventure. That is art. Art is that. It is the thing that succeeds where words fail. Where all that remains is a feeling.
And that may be all I need to move again. If even temporarily.
A single frame on a nondescript roll of expired film.
The gift of a voyeuristic experience into past versions of myself.