There’s a diffuser on my bedside table that lights up a pale purpley color through the dome top where the mist comes out. I can see its reflection in the mirror across the dark room, and the glow looks how I imagine a huge piece of amethyst might look in a hidden cave if amethysts could glow.
Man, what a week. What a month. It’s been like one big out-of-body experience, unpleasantly surreal. But when it gets quiet, like right now, my mind remembers that it’s attached to a body, one not well taken care of, and I become cognizant of every labored involuntary function that keeps me alive. Why does the world rely so heavily on someone so eager to distance herself from it? Am I not too self absorbed for this?
I have a collection of raw jewels from a trip my family made to Brazil years ago. My favorite gemstone is a large dark green tourmaline, a heavy, cylindrical stone with ridges running down the sides. I like that in spite of how dark it is, I can almost see through it. I like how heavy it is and how even in its raw state its ridges are straight and well defined. My thumb blindly follows the grooves when I hold it. When I pick it up, though I’ve held it hundreds of times, I’m always surprised by its weight. And I always try to look through it knowing I can’t so much as see into it. I also have a beautiful chunk of amethyst that has overlapping jets of variegated purple pointed in all directions. It’s an enchanting crystal grown out of an ugly rock.
People have been awful these last several weeks. I included. Even that pretty amethyst grew out of an ugly rock, though. They all do. I suspect I will too, eventually. I’m holding on to the idea that the glow in the mirror across this dark room is a preview of the reflection I’ll see up close when all this madness comes to a close.