For I see that I haven’t been, directly – although the things I read and see and photograph and respond to are, of course, about me.
Why not? I think because I am surprised and confused by my own state of mind and spirit.
All of a sudden, I stopped looking forward, stopped dwelling on some better life I hoped perhaps to have at some time in the future. Something very bad happening to a friend made me realise, in a way that all the theoretical belief and all the philosophising in the world could not, that there is only the present – and there I was, catapaulted into it; and there I have stayed.
How it is being in the present is hard to say. It’s different. Harsher. But less overwhelming, because nothing lasts very long.
The present is not a place I’ve ever spent much time in, living always much more in my head, my hopes and my imagination.
It is so different that - odd as this is - I truly cannot say if I find it closer to despair or closer to contentment.
And I’ve no idea if this will last.