After six straight days of speaking through photographs last week, it seems I have no words. You’d think I would be bursting, the silent time creating a massive traffic jam in my head. Instead…crickets, like the kind they play in movies when an amateur comedian chokes on a joke. Not good.
Something has snapped and I have fallen, like the rope of a tire swing twenty years past its prime. Last night, we had store-bought egg white and sausage sandwiches for dinner, and breakfast has been stale muffins from the cafeteria. My foolproof wheat bread is misshapen and lackluster; the growing expanse of ferns on our land look overgrown and unkempt, instead of wild and beautiful. I am in what you might call a rut.
There are reasons, and there are none. The truth is, no one really knows how these ruts come to be, or how to shake them off. Reasons are too simple, why is too direct. It takes many shovels and many men to dig a trench so deep; to accuse a heap of dirt would be silly. So there are two choices here: walk the trench to see how long it is, or look up to see how deep.
With my meager stance of only five foot three, the top seems a long way away. But darn it, that’s what stilettos are for. Five inch heels can do a lot for a woman. And oh, how I love shoes.
“What we call despair is often the painful eagerness of unfed hope.” George Eliot