Is there a theme?

Does one common theme emerge out of the writings of those of us who love to write? Have we looked back to see what’s reflected back at us? Probably not, because in more than one discussion here and elsewhere people have admitted feeling detached and removed from the words they’ve spun.

Well, some of us do go back and analyze and are often surprised by the image in this ‘mirror’. The analysis often raises more questions than it answers and plunges us deeper into further introspection. Here’s one such analysis:

She talked about being an outsider, about being left out in the cold and then about getting glimpses of what it was like to be let in, to be accepted, to bask in the warmth of neon lights, to enjoy being a part of something until the very thing that she had become a part of left her cold from inside, so cold that she couldn’t stand it anymore. She wanted to leave, to run and hide anywhere but here, trying to find some warmth again, real warmth from glowing embers, the kind that conducted through each cell of the body, one cell at a time, mellowing her from within.

She thought about life being lived on a plateau, unchanged, uneventful, dormant, yet simmering within. Did this show prescience of sorts? She was also referring to the illusions of reality, of nothing ever being what it seemed, insincerities and pretensions and again the familiar lack of warmth.

She wrote about tropical vacations and about starting over, about cleansing her mind of all burdensome insecurities, of clutter, of giving life a second chance, this time living in the moment, giving it her all, really settling in.

Then the nightmares began, they were relentless. The guilt set in of not being there for her family, her friends, her work, of a growing disenchantment and disillusionment with everything.

She felt the observer’s woes every time she saw her daughter playing with her husband, enjoying summer sports and winter fun with him, while she watched, while she wrote about it and photographed the two of them together. She never found herself in any pictures, the Kodak Chrome moments didn’t belong to her.

She wondered about her detachment, about being ruled by mercury. Not the planet, the element. An element that adhered to nothing. The detachment reared its ugly head again when she saw herself skirting around the noisome presence of a homeless man, of his cart-borne lifetime of grief.

Coming full circle in this epiphanic exercise in introspection, she reached the inescapable conclusion of her growing detachment, a clinical shearing away from all emotional ties, the first few steps toward a virtually solitary existence.

Is any of it true? She can’t be sure. Images are often distorted.

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