I’ve written so specifically about pain and loss that I’m not sure what else to write about sometimes. Sylvia Plath’s character Esther wrote about how depressing it was that she didn’t have anything to write about because she hadn’t experienced anything. I don’t think it’s only about experience but it’s about being able to write about anything. I don’t know if I’ve reached that level.

But I see things in words. I see feelings and movements and moments in words. Maybe everyone does. Or maybe not everyone pays attention the way that writers, filmmakers, or artists do. But I see things in sentences. Maybe not so much in stories—I don’t know that I am a good storyteller—but in moments.

I move moments from reality to paper in a matter of seconds. I move them so that I don’t forget them. I move them because they should be written. Because I feel that they should be written down and preserved not so much for memory but sometimes for their worth. And sometimes, I don’t get to write everything down, but I wish I could. Much like you wish you had a camera attached to your body, I wish my fingers were quills and my blood was ink. And I was walking along paper and trailing parts of me. Bleeding words from moments. And they would scab, turn into scars and the world would be a tattoo of our stories; our moments.

And that would be a beautiful world to live in—a world not written about in books but a world just written. Written word turned into the written world.


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