Afterward, I sat in my hotel room, ate my way through a king’s ransom of snacks, and tried to translate recorded words into written words while keeping, somehow, the feeling of them. And the truth of the person who had spoken them.
And it was f*****g impossible.
This was too vast. Too complex. Too real.
My ability to language had become this octopus, all flailing tentacles and squishiness, resisting my best attempts to corral it into the shapes I needed.
Ahhhhh.
I threw myself onto the bed and rolled about, kicking my feet, expertly converting mental distress into physical dramatics.
Weirdly, it helped. Cleared my head. And, it suddenly made me think of Matthew. Specifically what he’d said to me on the plane back from my hometown: that wanting something meant letting yourself be vul
