There are many things we feel inside; things we see, things we watch, things we remember, things we think.
These are all the things we cannot touch; cannot hold in our hands.
After a sad farewell yesterday I think one of the hardest parts about loss isn’t so much about not seeing someone again, but not being able to touch them; nor them you. What was a solid thing becomes something else; a memory.
I love to use these things in a more tangible way in my writing. I loved the little boy in one of my stories who claimed to feel colour. I love the way Billy in Chutney, sees bad thoughts as something you can keep in a jar and the way George, in his slightly broken English, thinks of time as something solid, talks of standing at the window and pressing his finger tips together to squeeze the sun back down and stop it rising the morning after his wife died.
It’s in the things we cannot touch, we can create something different; we can make even these things tangible and real.
That is why I love to write and to read; because of the different way it makes us see the world.
Happy Wednesday everyone.