What can I possibly write? I’m in a funk. In a funk. In a funky funk — funk this!
I’m battling insomnia, nightmares, urinary tract infections and some weird ass rumbling sound rolling around in my inner left ear. I’ve misplaced my primary journal, the one I coveted most. And, in spite of not having written by hand in it for some time, it’s just when I felt that I needed it most that I have lost it (likely forever).
I feel naked. Just thinking my raw words are out there for the possible perusal of strangers is quite disconcerting. Then I remember my friend being catapulted toward an instant death mere days ago and I think to myself: Count your blessings, woman!
Losing my journal feels like divine intervention. Let go of your attachment to things, Amber! Embrace a new journal and get back to scribing that mishmash of poetry/prose that ripples from your fingertips until your write hand is super sore.
I’ve been in a mourning daze, haunted by memories that spring out of nowhere. They make me want to cry. They give me comfort to laugh. I want to write them all down, but they sometimes all blur together into one voice playfully calling my name.
These past two weeks have been a time for observation. Life and memories entwine, and I am thankful for every breath, for every moment — good as well as bad — that have brought me to right here and now.
What more can I write? My dear friend lost her battle with addiction — was killed by a remorseless addict — and there was nothing I could do to save her. What I can do now is honor her memory, thinking most fondly of who she was before she lost her way.
Over the years, I have thought of her family as my surrogate family. They gave me a job at their café twice: once, when I was a hopeful undergrad, and again when I was bumbling grad student uncertain of my path. They gave me guidance and support when I needed it most, and for that I am truly grateful.