It’s precisely this discomfort—this unwieldy effort artists have to make to wobble on the knife’s edge and embody the “any” and the “every” at the same time, this longing to call forth something achingly specific that can’t yet be specified—that can make the creative process feel so brutal sometimes (and also, of course, so euphoric.)

How do you find solace when you lose something that never fully existed to begin with?

Bad emergencies are never, ever convenient. Could I say yes to a good emergency even at the least convenient moment? The answer felt clear. Life is a fucking catastrophe. Summon the joy anyway. 

Before last summer it never would have occurred to me to hike down a rocky gorge alone, slide my half-naked body into the racing current of a narrow river flume and lie on my back with my eyes open under the icy water to watch the sunlight flare through the trees above me. But last August, this was literally all I could think bout doing.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been hit with an avalanching realization of what we’re up against. But it was the first time I let myself entertain the full catastrophic possibility that things might never get better.

A desire can be met. A thirst can be quenched. A craving can be satisfied. But longing defies action. Longings are landscapes.