I am drawn to abandonment. My camera takes me to abandoned places and I am compelled to document all the things left alone, to rot. My pen writes fictional charcters and places, abandoned by those who used to love, used to care. My mind wanders to real and imagined scenes of abandonment, perhaps too frequently. And I wonder.
Why this obsession?
As a little girl I used to mourn the loss of friends who were simply leaving after a long weekend visit. I don’t quite remember, but did I worry I’d never see them again? Or did I think they were leaving me, behind? I remember the tears, and I remember hiding, around the corner, behind the door. Just out of eyesight, but still within earshot of the last closing of the front door.
We fear being unloved, unlovable. There is safety in number. Humans are social beings. We crave companionship, like the drowning crave a cool breath of air.
It is not aloneness that scares me. I am content with myself. It’s my fear of undeservedness. But undeserving of what, I cannot say.
Instead I write. Raw tales. Complicated characters. Imperfect people and places and scenes. And if I write them well enough, maybe I can find, finally, all that I deserve.