Out of a tormented heart emerges art. There is a guttural feeling words can’t begin to translate – a sickness, a tingling, an emptiness. Grief. That abstract concept that applies to other people – other, unlucky people. You blink, and suddenly you’re some statistic, something you conceptualized as a woe which befalls other people. One moment – and your world-view spins like a globe in someone’s hand, stopping on unfamiliar terrain, leaving you whiplashed, dizzy, reeling. What is real? Who is left? How have the years spun us here?
It was Poe who surmised – “years of love have been forgot in the hatred of a minute.”
a concept that, until tonight, applied only to other people.
But how can we rewind reality? How can we un-see what we thought to be true unravel? As people un-zip their costumes, step out naked before you.
We can’t turn back from this; this is forever.
We were the other people, but now we’re not.