Please read the following 3 paragraphs and let me know if you want more:
“I didn’t know which room number was ours or even which floor we were on. The hotel we stayed in was in lower Manhattan, but I couldn’t remember the street. I awoke wrapped in crisp white sheets with only a sliver of light, like a laser, peeping through the impermeable dark curtains that felt like velvet. When I sat up, I paused a few moments, waiting for the dull ache of my head to hit me–my body’s way of telling me I should drink more or not at all. The bed was cold next to me, no sign of the body that had been there hours before, no traces of the person who kissed me goodbye and told me he’d see me soon. These are the lies we tell each other. Those same lies we tell ourselves.
When I realized, despite the near blackout I had achieved the night before at some seedy, downtown, hole-in-the wall bar, that I could actually stand, I immediately went towards that light to glance out onto the street and try to figure out where I was. When the curtains parted I nearly collapsed at the sight of it. I was standing, naked, looking down at Ground Zero. The partially completed Freedom Tower, however beautiful in the morning light, could not make up for the fact that it stood behind a gaping hole. Between that tower and me was something I couldn’t even comprehend. I still can’t. I just sensed loss, emptiness: complete and irrevocable.
Before 9/11 the term ‘ground zero’ had a completely different connotation. It simply meant a starting point or a base for something to be built upon. Now it feels like what I sensed that morning, like something you know is true–a reality you know exists but don’t want to admit out loud or even acknowledge. But those floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows in that hotel room forced me at a time in my life that I had reached a personal low, to stare into yet another abyss. It might as well have been a mirror, razor sharp. With its precision it stared back at me and said, you can’t deny this now.”
So, is this something you would read? Should I write more and try to build something on this unsteady ground, or just let it die and fall into the unending wasteland of literary failures?
Write or die. You decide!