I once stood on the balcony of Great Oaks Manor on a sweltering summer night and cried. The same balcony pictured above. Probably not too long after that photo was taken.1
There were june bugs everywhere. Falling through cracks in the floorboards, stranded on their backs their tiny legs desperately flailing in the direction of the stars. I sat there for hours in my favorite rocking chair, watching them scurry and flail. Sticky, salty tears streaking down my cheeks. My heart was crushed and life felt hopeless.
Years later, I still remember how the pain made my blood burn like fire and ice – freezing before reaching the clenched heart in my chest. I felt empty inside. The kind of emptiness that can’t be filled. I couldn’t eat. Instead, I would drink cup after cup of Earl Grey tea. The air smelled musty with hints of bergamot and summer rain.
I seem to spend a lot of time crying alone on balconies like some modern day Eva Peron. Of course, Casa Rosada doesn’t hold a candle to a certain balcony in Aspen.
Today I was thinking, what’s so terrible about a life spent crying on balconies?
After all, some of my best work has come from those moments. On that note…
I wanted to revisit one of my favorite posts from the past – so I’m sharing it here. When I first published this, S read it and asked me if I was trying to break up with him. I wasn’t. I was trying not to lose myself.
- Photo by Mr. S. ↩