People quite soon after asked me to ‘paint the stroke’. I couldn’t. There was no way of rendering in paint that loss of speech, of language. Yes, I could use abstract expression to pretend but it would be a simulacrum, nothing more; not real.
Instead, I chose to write a novel! It remains unpublished because I wrote it for myself. Maybe I will let the world share but who will care for my solitary meanderings through my mind.
However, the experience of actually writing it, exploring what it means, or meant, to be me was as illuminating as any light should be.
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Explanation:
About ten years ago, I had a stroke.
People quite soon after asked me to ‘paint the stroke’. I couldn’t. There was no way of rendering in paint that loss of speech, of language. Yes, I could use abstract expression to pretend but it would be a simulacrum, nothing more; not real.
Instead, I chose to write a novel! It remains unpublished because I wrote it for myself. Maybe I will let the world share but who will care for my solitary meanderings through my mind.
However, the experience of actually writing it, exploring what it means, or meant, to be me was as illuminating as any light should be.