Everywhere we've never been

April roundup

I’ve been feeling so down lately.

Katherine Min, whose work I mentioned in last week’s AnnaGrams and am now devouring and encourage you to do the same, said, “Most writers I know are lonely people. In order to observe the world, you need to remain slightly separate from it.”

And that seems true, though I also know plenty of writers who are social, who have few qualms about going out in the world, talking with strangers, and living savory lives.

With my hearing, I can’t talk to strangers—not easily, anyway. Connection comes only after straining, after trial and tumult, and so most days I don’t bother. Most days I don’t leave my house.

I try to go online, to find people that way, but every day seems to bring a fresh horror (looking at you, Arizona), and besides, it’s not the same, is it?

Still, you wobble along, liking and hearting and reaching, removing little stones from your bones in hopes of paving a way for others to cross over.

This is one.