By writing about things I try to become part of a conversation that is merely overheard. I write from a state of perpetual longing, the feeling of being outside of things.
I’m never invited in, I’m merely allowed to listen.
In the process, the act of writing, I am there. It is only when the writing is done and the pen is put away that I’m filled with the loneliness of having gone home alone. Again.
The moral: never read C.S. Lewis on an empty stomach.