You know those deep, dark patches of emotion that you could step into and be engulfed in a second so you thought you were actually drowning? Or the ones that explode right next to you and by the time you pick yourself and everyone else in the vicinity, up, there’s a pathetic little blackened wick lying there, so puny, you’re flummoxed. How about the pitchy puddles of memory that leave dirty scars on your fingers, your clothes, your eyes and lungs?
If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you’re either too young or way too old. If it is the former, I get to be smug and protective at the same time, while telling you not to fret, life gets ugly and pretty at the same time and when it gets to you, you call it art. If however, it is the latter, then you have both my envy and my sympathy…and is that a touch of bitter humour? Irony, I think it is called.
I’m old enough to write about emotion and young enough to fumble when identifying one. Just right to write.