First Night of Writing Class

Lately, when I make soup, it's always lacking something. If I had to say just how I feel, picture a camera, gone to the shop. A man fools with it, puts his eyes into its lens, touches things. His hands are casual. He presses a button: a door opens. The shop light falls in, fluorescent, the kind that immediately makes you think of its opposite. Each exposed frame is a room sucked from itself, flung through its own window. Worlds are disappearing now, simply by being watched too closely. Nights are overexposed, stars common. I too am common, though I never knew it so fiercely as now. I can even remember thinking once that perhaps a special thread ran through me, a silk fastening holding me to an undiscovered point of sky. I was alone the night I thought that, my husband and child asleep behind windows. Something had gone wrong inside me, but no one else knew, not yet. I was alone, sharing words with no one, watched by no one.