I have been feeling detached, everything I do and every idea I produce has no real gravity to dig my heels into and push off from. I can’t really remember a time where I felt solid ground to build off of.
Life is hollow and suspended. I float in the in-between while others move and act, anchored to their worlds by experience, responsibility, purpose and intention. I have not been able to accumulate enough mass in meaning to create a gravity to move under. Without gravity or structure physical movement is futile. Any substantial mass I once had for myself has dissipated. Nothing I try to accumulate has enough density to stay long. Anything that could ground me or at least pull me into orbit feels like it is just out of reach or long passed. If anything, objects that come near only repel me further away. So I just float hoping to crash into something, drifting somewhere dark.
So dark that the only object in nature that emulates what I look out on is a black hole. The densest of gravity from which nothing can escape, not even light. The ultimate point of no return. If I continue to lose touch, something is bound to happen. One last moment before the slip right over the edge into the absolute unknown. I swirl around it, still at some distance but with the event horizon close enough to sense.
The rate at which I approach feels faster every day. Maybe I’ll come so close so quickly that I’ll be repelled out again, destined to continue a sick irregular orbit before one day I slip too close and topple over the edge into complete and full nothingness.
Maybe on the way back out, if I make it past, I’ll crash into something or accumulate enough mass to become self sufficient or at least carry as comfort. For now that’s what I continue to face when I wake up, and the only thing I can bring myself make art about.
I continue to work with stained glass, which feels fitting, as it is something that operates through filtering light now used to accentuating a space where there is no light.