I haven't done anything for nine years, just existed.
After my dad died art died inside of me.
There was no longer a burning desire to reach out, there was no narration of emotions I was certain others didn't feel.
There was nothing.
And quiet shame.
Yet here I am, moved and inspired after yet another left my life.
I would like to say I mourned, I wailed and begged.
But I know better.
An unyielding nothingness lingers, there are no dramatics.
At times though I wish there were.
And I would write it down, and others would want to act them out because the emotions therein exemplified the human condition.
But again, only the yawning void is the avatar of my heart.
And the passions of my youth; stout ideals would be more interesting than... this.
Maybe though, I should talk about my water heater and that last phenomenal episode of Dancing With the Stars.
Moving from discussions of socks to Brenda in HR and her weight.
Maybe I am these things.
I don't know.
But what I do know is that I am lost.
-Lance Binkley, 2017-2018