meteors + metaphors

a night at the beach

Last summer, August to be specific (I feel that’s important to note), a friend, my dog and myself sat on the cold, midnight sand of Rockaway Beach to witness the Perseid meteor shower. It was a Sunday night turning into Monday, and if one was a romantic or a dreamer, one might find symbolism in this and consider the night under the cosmos as the ending of one thing, and the beginning of something else.

I wasn’t a romantic or dreamer, but I was a writer. Metaphors are detectives; sleuthing me out, throwing me in a room with bad coffee, interrogating me until I give them what they want. And what they want is to be written.

So though I’m tragically a realist, I leaned into any spiritual inclination I had and begged whomever might be listening to make this night the last page of the current chapter of my life.

Nothing was particularly wrong, but nothing felt particularly right either. I had settled into a routine that felt predictable and lonely. I struggled to find love because I despised men. I couldn't figure out how to unstick myself in my career, reach more people, make more money. I couldn't find a way out of the banality and described myself as stagnantly depressed to anyone who’d listen. I was bored. I was alone. I was broke.