I opened this window several hours ago in hopes of reflecting on the closing year. The best year of my life, the first year I’ve ever felt like it was my life — immediately following the year my life seemed to fall away from me.

I have not been able to form words, even to myself. I can feel the presence of something inside me, feel the need to pour out in words, feel the emotional composition of the space — but when I reach, I find nothing.

I wanted to explore contentment. I wanted to reflect on security, on legitimacy, on ownership. I wanted to look at what I’ve gained — what I’ve established.

But when I reach, I find nothing.

I can see the form of the space emerge. But I cannot access the contents.

I need to be in there, digging, shaping, sorting, building, smoothing. Processing.

But all I can do is know that space is there, and that I cannot be in it.

My own thoughts, emotions, and memories are hidden from me. Buried away. For my protection.

One day, some time ago, I needed that. I needed to be able to bury the raw sensation of being. Bury it deep, undetectable. To keep it from being infringed.

But now that I am safe from what threatened me — now that I have cleared some space — now that I want to use what I’d saved –

I find nothing.