no man is an island

It is too simple to see yourself as alone. The absence of so many expectations in life are like a river, driving towards that unnerving mantra - we are all on our own. It isn't a question of this being true or not, it is about how easily we believe it. What else could explain that voice that drifts above our heads in the wee small hours of the morning? What messages do we read in the tea leaves? Yes, we are loved. Yes, we know the smell of the back of someone's neck late at night. But these two truths can co-exist.

I have gone through an odd experience in the past weeks that repeats itself. A complete stranger sees my film, or listens to my song and sees right through me. Here I am, convinced I have created something too hard to decipher and I am dead wrong. There is a relentless clarity in these moments and I cannot begin to claim it is a result of my actions. No, it is the river running towards the fish. It is the island being reconnected to the mainland. It is the long arc of a return I never imagined I could walk.



I play some of the latest songs from the album for E. Some she heard a long time ago when I sketched them out. Her head hangs low, as if she counting to one thousand very slowly. Then one comes on that she has not heard, the wallflower's surprise. It is not long, and she says nothing until it is over. I imagine it is a dud, a clunky afterthought. I see she is crying. "That is my favorite one." She says, in a small voice.