I’m not sure anything needs to be said. There is no sense of pressure building. No longing for release. What’s lacking is enthusiasm. Urgency. Intensity. I miss these feelings that so often came with the words that were not quite in my head, not quite on the tip of my tongue but nevertheless were, suddenly, there on the page.
At 42 I miss 24, if only for the anticipation of surprises, the atmosphere of mystery. Lately I feel as if the plot has been spoiled, as if I read the last sentence first.
“And then you die.”
I’d like to forget I ever saw it, convince myself I may have been mistaken. Maybe there’s some context that will change the meaning. Maybe the whole thing turns out to be a dream. Maybe if I start again from the beginning I’ll get so lost in the drama, so absorbed in the unfolding of details that I’ll forget what I saw, or at least cast enough doubt to make things interesting again.