A heavy, grey cloud has sat it’s butt right on top of us. It’s raining, and the fog’s so thick we can barely see our neighbour’s yard.
Though we can’t see it, we know it’s still there: our neighbour’s yard, the big trees across the street, the harbour, the mountains a few miles away. So close, but this morning I might be convinced that they don’t exist and never did.
In the wake of the interview yesterday, I’m feeling depressed. I’m worried that if I get back into the routine of a full time job, one that taps my creativity and saps my energy, that I’ll go back to living a boring life, a life with nothing to write about. I was so afraid, back in Toronto, that I’d wake up one day and find that I’d passed forty years of my life in the same manner I’d passed the last ten years. It was such an enormous relief to wake up on January 1st, 2010 and realize that I really had gotten out of there, and that the next ten years, surely, will be different.
And they will be. I know that as certainly as I know the mountains will be there when the fog lifts. I know they’re there, but sometimes, in the fog, it’s difficult to remember what they look like.