Today I tacked up a cork board in my writing space. I bought it used a few weeks ago for five bucks and carted it home on the bus. When I was hunting around for what to pin to the board, I took great care to avoid a stack of objets that I had put away after a painful episode.
But guess what? I kept coming back to the stack, and eventually I got it, that I had to put up one of the photographs and look at it every day, because even though it cuts me like a knife every time I see it, it's also a metaphor for what inspires me. Passion. Emergence. Loss. A pain so sharp I think it might kill me.
The kind of image I should never let out of my sight.
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