When your writing becomes at least as much memory and time travel as immediate documentation—pressed by the tidal flow of bringing children to and from school, keeping your family safe and entertained, and managing the completely normal and boring small-scale conflicts within your marriage, you find refuge in your mind, sorting through the family you’ve left behind, past lovers, the drama of being young that the young survive and the old romanticize, repeating dreams you’ve had—still have—since you were living these memories, like the one last night of not falling but sinking endlessly in water that has no bottom but being able to breathe and see everything, feeling all these vague glimpses and notions in the oceanic press of time and tide, transcribing them into words and sentences that can only approximate—never capture—them. This is the closest intimation you’ll ever get of immortality.

What are the Sneaky Feels?

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AuthorJohn Proctor