We were creating our usual perfect scenes of bright colors and smiling faces at a house studio the other day when I looked through a window and saw that there had been a fire in the house next door. Most of the roof was gone; only a fringe of tiles remained around the edges. A guilty secret, from the street there was nothing to see. But from my second floor vantage, charred and blackened wooden beams reached for the sky, skeletal, naked, exposed to the drizzling rain. The glass was blown out of a pair of small windows, sightless eyes framed with soot mascara. The house stood there achingly lonely, forlorn. Someone had lost everything, perhaps even life, and I was overwhelmed with an unbearable sadness.
I was called back to my world of rainbows and unicorns, but returned to the window again and again during the day, reminding myself to be grateful for all the good things in my life. But I also couldn’t stop thinking of all that I have lost, so many lives and loves fading into the limitless distance, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a corner under a blanket and forget, at least for a while, that I exist.