Sometimes I think I live in a bubble.
I surround myself in a comfort blanket of unreality where death is only imagined and pain is a lesson.
Where the fight is a journey, a fence hurdled, a mountain climbed.
And victory is the sweet overcoming of my own creation.
And I draw the blanket around myself as I create, pulling in reality for validity and credibility — but it can’t harm.
The suffering, though imagined, does draw from truths, and the lessons of the work validated in changed thinking.
But in that bubble I feel safe.
I am safe.
I stand in my bubble with my hands pressed to a film — a surface so fine it’s already gone.
And yet it connects to everything. And nothing.
Yesterday another senseless act of violence in London.
I sip from a glass that’s full, see through the rainbow of a bubble.
I know one day I will use what I saw yesterday to tell another story, another face, another name, but the same.
I will weave meaning from senseless. It’s how I survive. It’s what I do. A President shot on a crowded Dallas street.
History reshaped by a writer of untruths and truths — side by side.
But not today.
Today I watch.
Today I stand in my bubble and believe we are all safe.
Roll silent credits