The Lighthouse

I tend to think of all stories, at least the ones that appeal to me, as having some tragic element of separation.  Each story of this type, though the details may vary, evokes a central image in my mind – that of a person suspended in darkness, mouth shaping a silent scream (for these images are unaccompanied by sound), arms outstretched as if grasping for a buoy in the nothingness, as they are inexorably pulled away into the vacuum of the distance.  An image sometimes invades my consciousness: that of the above scenario only with the generic representation of personhood replaced by the very real features of somebody who has been very much a concrete player in my own life.  It is the beginning of a process that, though again the details may vary, will pull this very real person (a friend, a partner, a family member) out of my life, more often in slow increments than by a sudden yank.  There is some underlying universal force at work that drives people apart thus and I feel that, in a sense, it is this force that is the source of all the loneliness and misery in the world.  I said that this phenomenon appealed to some dark sensibility I carry, that it was a type of story, but I have long held the suspicion that every story, if one were to look closely enough, contains this terrible element.